


A Little Bit Better Than I Used to Be

by Carbocat



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Cop Diego, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-01-04 14:35:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18345656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbocat/pseuds/Carbocat
Summary: Diego’s week seemed to be going from bad to worse, to even worse, to even worse.His girlfriend broke up with him on the night that his estranged father died and his brother thought that he killed him. His police captain was threatening his job and the asshole orphan kid he found at a crime scene just called him in the middle of the night.“I’m outside of Grimbel Brother’s Department store,” He spoke even but urgently into the phone. “At the payphones. You have ten minutes.”





	1. I've Covered This Ground Before

**Author's Note:**

> Originally chapter one was supposed to cover a lot more ground than what it does, but it was getting ridiculously long. 
> 
> So, this chapter really sets out to establish Diego's state of mind being home and where he's at in his relationships and his life, and that the family dynamic is similar regardless of powers. 
> 
> There is some repeating dialogue from the show since this story and the show start at the same time.

_You act as if I couldn’t understand._

To walk into the Hargreeves manor was to be swallowed whole.

It was to put foot after foot after foot in front of the other and willingly, and _repeatedly_ bring yourself into the needle-sharp teeth of a particularly vile monster. It was to be _crushed_ , to be grounded into dust between the molars of a socially acceptable smile.

It was to be taken in hopeful, and spat out broken and golden crowned, and be told that you were one of the lucky ones.

_How could you ever understand?_

_Make me understand._

It was to throw yourself back into the dark abyss that you’d crawled out of, to bottom out hope and grief, and find out that there was so much more of it. It was to claw yourself open with dull bloody fingernails and claim yourself part of the _Umbrella Academy._

It was to be welcomed home to a house that never existed as one, to cover yourself in comic book ink until you wore it like leather, and to believe it’d protect you until it didn’t. It was to cut your hands and scar your knees and learn to ration food in preparation for an apocalypse that only ever happened on pages.

_I carry my own baggage and I’ve shared that with you. I am strong enough to carry part of yours and I want to._

To be _here_ was to be wrong and to know it. To be so unwanted and so _stolen_ that there was nowhere else to be. It was to turn his back on all his strong-willed and biting words that he had left on the floor as he left.

It was to dip his hands into black and leather, and blood, and to be a stuttered witness to a slow kind of internal damnation because the manor was many things, real and fake, but it had never functioned as a house, or an escape, or _home_.

_Just explain what you’re afraid of and talk to me. I can help you through it, just help me understand._

He never felt lucky.

Like those kids and their golden tickets, it was not a wonderland behind the Hargreeves’ doors and no one believed otherwise unless they lived it.

_Why would I ever do that to you? I love you, Eudora._

The Hargreeves manor was an eldritch monster, dormant in its sleep with padlocked teeth and to step inside was to be devoured under the grind of plaqued horror. It was to be engulfed in a past not worth remembering, that lingered and followed, and left _scars_ that were never going away.

He knew where he was fucked up. He knew it in the ache of long since healed broken fingers, in the pulse of the scar on his head. He knew how it happened, and by whose hands.

He could not fix it.

It was to be engulfed in a lifetime of carrying the name of a monster that was called _charming,_ and _eccentric,_ and _brilliant,_ and being told that he was so, so _lucky_ to have lived crushed in between those teeth, to be chewed up and spat back out.

Reginald Hargreeves was a monster. He was a creator, and a visionary, and a monster inside of a monster. He sliced with a deft hand, a blunt instrument, and he took apart orphan kids and built them into the sick, damaged images that he wanted. He was not a man, he was a _thing._

_I’m not doing this._

_Is this about Ben? It wasn’t your fault what-_

_I’m not doing this with you, Eudora._

It was the push and pull, and all the childhood abuse at the hands of a man that wasn’t just a creator, inventor, monster but _insane,_ and _paranoid,_ and a _recluse_. It was all the abuse that had been varied and different for all of them, and horrible. The Hargreeves manor had burnt like brand into the skin and bled into the present just by proximity.

_Then when are you going to? I’m trying to help you._

_I don’t need your help!_

To be back at those _teeth_ felt like ripping open unhealed wounds.

It was not a burden to bear alone, but each of them did.

_Diego, where are you going?_

It echoed heavy in their footsteps.

_Diego, what are you doing with that knife? You put that vigilante stuff behind you._

It echoed in their shoulders.

It echoed in the way that Eudora had said, _if you walk out that door than this is over between us, Diego._

It echoed in the way that he left.

Diego breathed in.

He forced his lungs to expand against the rock in his chest and held the breath, sinking down into the seat of his police issued vehicle. He needled absently at a seam in the seat with the dull end of a knife, watching from across the street as the monster slept.

To take a step towards it would chance waking it, so he didn’t. He waited.

The manor stretched across an entire city block, overran with weeds and decrepit, as ancient in the town’s settlement as it was cemented in local lore. It’s big and empty windows sunk back into the brick face, dead eyes to a world it was not looking at. The sidewalks cracked into a smile, mocking him. Calling him a coward.

There were monsters inside of that gated door, whispered as horror stories at sleepovers and slumber parties. There were ghosts that haunted the dusty overstuffed halls and rows of teeth that ate up orphan children.

Parents used to joke, _don’t leave your children unattended, Reginald Hargreeves will snatch them up and make them into superheroes_.

There were whispered tales all around the city and in the pages of comic book stores – eccentric billionaire inventor-turn-comic book writer adopted a hoard of foster children and they became superheroes in the pages of the best new super family since The Fantastic Four.

Diego – The Kraken – Destined to destroy everything good in his life. Good with knives.

There were whispers of those children training in that big old house, growing up into vigilantes, and movie stars, and _dead_. There were whispers of creepy inventions, of robots, of monsters.

There were no ghosts, no machines, no monsters.

Just one.

And he had died.

_Diego, have you seen the news?_

He breathed out.

He waited.

He watched.

Luther was the first to arrive, unaware of the observing eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses and darker window tint. He looked hollow-cheeked and red eyed from back to back flights on whatever errant or business meeting that their father had sent him out of the country on. He watched the woolen beast in his thick jacket and his high turtleneck yank his overnight back from the trunk and tip the driver.

He watched the universe warp itself around bulging muscles and slumped shoulders to make space in the outside world for a man that was as absent from it as their father had been.

Luther had never left like the rest of them, the eldest and the most loyal. He stayed behind with their father, made excuses for their father, took care of the old man and all of his businesses. He only ventured out for board meetings and to run errands.

He embraced the teeth like _home_.

Diego watched Allison arrive with a suitcase almost too heavy to carry and designer shoes that never did much walking. The small crowd of paparazzi that had followed her from the airport stopped at the gate and then disbursed.

Klaus arrived in leather and feathers, skipping down the street to a beat only heard in his cheap headphones. Diego watched him swing on the gate and drink from mini-bottles of stolen alcohol before shimmying his way around back to the patio doors.

Diego didn’t know why he still waited for Ben after so many years because it was never Ben and he was always disappointed, crushed.

Vanya was last to arrive.

She had taken enough care to text the rest of them the night before that she had practice and would be late. No one had responded.

She came by taxi, violin case still held to her chest the way she carried it as a child. She stared up at the tall jagged cut of the manor in front of her, and then dropped her gaze from it.

He could read every ounce of trepidation in her, could _feel_ it measure up against his own and in that moment, it felt like those horror stories were true after all. Ghost, monster, machine.

Her shoulders slumped forward with a weight that he knew all too well, the desire to run and the decision not to. She followed like the rest of them, into the teeth.

And Diego, he would follow too.

He sighed.

He pocketed his knife, dropping it on the newspaper left abandoned and unread in his passenger seat – Eccentric Billionaire Dies in His Sleep.

The body hadn’t even been cold before the newspaper headlines started to pour in. The family hadn’t been notified before the reporters started to call, wanting statements. Everybody wanted to know what Reginald Hargreeves’ estranged children had to say about his death.

It was out of habit that he checked the knife that he kept slid up his sleeve, and the one in his pocket and the two he kept attached to his holster. It was a habit like it was also a habit to check for his gun and his badge, and that the radio clipped to his belt was on. It was habit in the same way that it was habit to check for Ben, to count the heads of his siblings and always come up one short.

He’d joined the police force as a way to do _something_ with all the residual anger from his childhood, as a way to be helpful and purposeful that wasn’t conditional to what Reginald Hargreeves thought. The police academy was supposed to break him of his knife wielding habits, but the knives had stayed, and the anger had stayed, and the looking for Ben.

He took the knife in his passenger seat out of nerves, though he would call that a habit too.

The anger was something that was supposed to be worked out in productive and healthy ways, in the detective work and the precinct baseball league, but it snapped into place like bruised knuckles and the realignment of broken bones when he walked into those teeth. All the things that he thought he’d be cool about melted against red hot indignity, “What is she doing here?”

The last memory that he had standing in this cursed house was in his dress uniform with news of being shortlisted for detective. It was of being so proud of himself, and filled with an almost giddy need to say, _‘look, Dad, look what I made of myself.’_

Vanya’s book had been left on the table, thick and unopened, and _sepia._ He hadn’t _known_ she was writing a book, hadn’t known about all the little revelations that it included – his stutter and his violent _expunged_ teenage years, his collection of knives and the years he spent living out his comic book counterpart as a vigilante.

It set back his track to detective by _years_.

“She shouldn’t be here after what she did.”

Vanya shrank back, and Allison put her hands on her hips with the hardened expression of a tv sitcom mother. He could almost hear the laugh track as she said, “Is _now_ the time to be doing this? Today of all possible days.”

“They opened up an investigation into me because of her!” He exclaimed, too angry and too hot like sunburn peeled back. “I almost lost my job.”

“And you didn’t, so we’re not doing this right now,” Allison replied dismissively, not moving as he stomped around her. “And way to dress for the occasion.”

“At least I’m wearing black.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find Luther so we can start this thing,” He stopped at the top of the stairs. “Some of us have _real_ jobs to get back to. Thanks.”

“I literally just came from my job,” Vanya muttered, but he ignored her. He often ignored her.

He didn’t need to stick around for ‘girl talk.’ He already knew how it would play out. Vanya would insist that she should leave, that no one wanted her around, and Allison would say that yeah, writing that book was a dick move. She’d say that he was also a dick and that Vanya wasn’t going anywhere.

They’d all deal with their father’s estate, or wishes, or ashes, or _whatever_ , and then they’d be on their merry fucking way until the next funeral.

This house brought out the worst in him, in all of them.

The ugly wallpaper and dusty old portraits on the hallway walls were familiar in the way that repeating nightmares were, like a haunting meant for someone else. To be in this house fucking _sucked_.

The only real comparison Diego had was to the dementors in those books Eudora had kept trying to get him to read because this place sucked the happiness right from his bones. He had been happy with Eudora but in here, in these halls, remembering her felt like remembering the pictures in a children’s book, flat.

Reginald had been abusive to each of them in their own special horrible way. He had piled upon Luther’s shoulders the responsibility of the ‘team,’ had expected him to make sure that the rest of them stayed in line and watched with disinterest as he struggled to upon an impossible standard.

He turned Allison into a snitch, a gossip, an undercover spy. He destroyed Klaus in ways that Diego still didn’t understand, in the way that shattered teacups could never be put back together just right. It had been neglect with Vanya, a complete disinterest. And Ben…

Diego touched the scar on the side of his head and refused to think about his own abuse. They were all unwittingly falling into their roles.

Vanya, the timid. Diego, the snoop. Luther, loyal to the very end. Like a dog.

“Let me save you the time,” He drawled from the doorway of their father’s bedroom. He watched the way Luther tensed at the sound of his voice and took a little pride in it. “Windows are locked.”

Luther’s hand dropped away from the window he was inspecting, “I didn’t know you were here, Diego.”

“All the windows are locked,” He repeated, arms crossed over his chest. “There was no forced entry, no sign of a struggle. Nothing out of the ordinary. Dear old Dad passed away in his sleep.”

Luther’s hulking form slumped at the shoulders, but his voice was a firm accusation, “Were you the first on the scene?”

“Seeing how I work homicide and not in the ‘old man died of a heart attack’ division, no. I wasn’t the first on the scene,” He said, pulling a folded report from the inner pocket of his uniform. Luther tensed like he had been expecting a knife.

 Any other day and it would have been a knife.

Diego rolled his eyes like they both didn’t know how much he would have preferred it to be a knife and passed over the report. “I got a friend of mine in the medical examiner’s office to do me a solid and slip the autopsy report to me. Death was as normal as it gets, boring _ordinary_ heart failure.”

“So?”

“So, what are you doing in here then?” Diego asked in a voice that rubbed like cool metal against Luther’s nerves. “Why are you checking all the windows unless you’re casing the place.”

“What? I’m not-“

“Of course, you’re not. You’re investigating, aren’t you?”

“I hate when you act like every conversation with me is an interrogation.”

“You think foul play was involved.”

It wasn’t a question because they both knew that was exactly what he thought, that it was the only logical reason for him to be in this room. He didn’t answer the blunt non-question, asking again instead, “Were you the first at the scene?”

He wasn’t.

He was arguing with Eudora when Dad’s heart gave out. He was being broken up with as he lied dead in his bed, prowling the streets half the night looking for trouble and ignoring phone calls when he was found.

He’d stopped an aggravated burglary when the news of his death spilt onto the early morning news stations, and he’d answered Eudora’s call, _Diego, have you seen the news?_

He didn’t tell Luther any of that because it didn’t matter. He was going to believe whatever he wanted to believe, so Diego tilted his mouth into a smile and looked up at the big man, “Had to make sure he was really dead.”

“Accept it, Luther,” He added, pressing. “He was just a sad old man that kicked the bucket in a big empty house like he deserved.”

“You should leave.”

“Whatever you say,” He snapped.

Luther snapped back, “Good.”

 

They both ended up in the living room.

It felt like an oxymoron to a call a room with a couch a living room because _living_ was never what any of them did in this room. It was the hold your breath and keep your head down and hope that you didn’t piss him off room. It was the awkward conversations room, the make you wish you were dead room.

They sat on separate pieces of old dusty furniture like wax figures in a demented museum. The air was stuffy and silent until Diego took a bat to it, “This place sure went to shit after Mom left.”

“I was _just_ thinking that!” Klaus exclaimed from his face down position on the floor, his voice muffled by the carpet. He rolled slowly to his back with a loud continuous groan before shoving his arms into the air with jazz hands and a grin, “He’s dead, _yay._ ”

“Klaus,” Luther warmed.

“I need a drink,” Klaus declared as he bounced over to the bar in a newly stolen leather skirt, never one to heed to warmings anyways. “The man didn’t know how to love or take care of children but, love him or hate him, at least he had the good graces to leave behind a fully stocked bar.”

“I thought you just got out of rehab?”

“What’s your point?”

“We should get started,” Luther commanded. He thought that being the first adopted and having two months alone in the manor before Diego and Allison had been adopted meant that he was in charge. He thought it made him number one. The leader.

Diego rolled his eyes at Allison. She shrugged back the same sentiment but was willing to give Luther the benefit of the doubt, so Luther continued uninterrupted, “I was thinking that we should have a memorial service this evening, in the courtyard. Someone could say a few words. Nothing big, he wouldn’t want that.”

“He didn’t want children either and he had a ton of those,” Klaus pointed out, dropping onto the couch next to Vanya. “We should have a party. Rave lights, sequence, loud music… I know this great Molly dealer that could-“

“Are you high right now?”

Klaus laughed, tongue flickering over his cracked bottom lip, “Yeah, D. I am.”

“We – a small service sounds nice,” Allison agreed, getting back on topic. She gave Diego a look like she was waiting for a uniform confirmation, but he had no intention of giving that to her or Luther.

She added with her Hollywood smile, “We can catch up afterwards. We’ve all drifted apart.”

Vanya was the only one that voiced the sentiment that they all felt, mumbling, “For good reason.”

They all pretended that she didn’t.

“We can make hot chocolate and breakfast food,” Allison added, “The way that Mom used to make them. Is she coming in for this?”

“No,” He and Luther said at the same time.

They looked at each other and Diego prompted with his hand, “Get on with the show. Some of us are busy.”

“We get it,” Allison sighed, rolling her eyes. “You got a big boy job, Diego. We’re _very_ proud of you. We all mostly have jobs.”

“Oh, but nothing as important as the PD’s finest. Protecting the streets from all those crazy drug dealers, right?” Klaus oozed sarcastically, extending a ‘hello’ in the form of a dramatic wave. “Hi.”

“You don’t even have a job, Klaus.”

He sipped loudly from his drink, “And how’s the detective, Detective?”

Diego gritted his teeth involuntarily, sucking in a breath that pierced like the sharp side of one of his knives and Klaus _noticed_. His expression swung hazardously between brotherly concern and being a brotherly dick about it.

He chose the latter, “You’re _not_? Did she dump you? I am, well, for one, I am just shocked.”

“How was rehab? Again.”

“Riveting. You know what they say, three times the charm, D,” He said flippantly, pressing a hand to his chest like he was sharing a secret with the room. “I really discovered myself in there. Did you know that I have a problem with authority? It must be from that time my brother arrested me for no reason and tried to send me to jail.”

“I _saved_ your ass from going to jail,” Diego snapped, crossing and then uncrossing his arms defensively. He pointed at him, “You tried to buy drugs from an undercover cop.”

“Well, he didn’t say he was a cop.”

“He was undercover, jack-“

Luther sighed, loud and low, “Can we not do this right now?”

Allison added, “Arguing isn’t appropriate.”

“But it is typical,” Vanya pointed out.

“Dad wouldn’t want us to fight like this.”

“Dad is dead.”

Klaus exclaimed, “Thank the lord!”

“And Luther thinks one of us killed him.”

The conversation died on the lips of those with something still to say and everybody’s head swiveled between Diego’s deafening statement and Luther. The silence ticked like a bomb before it exploded, “What?!”

“How could you-“

“Why do you-“

“I never said that I thought one of us killed him, I-“

“But you think _someone_ did?” Allison asked. “Who?”

“He thinks that _I_ did,” Diego stated.

Klaus clicked his fingernails against his glass, “Rude, bro.”

“Well,” Luther sighed against the varied expressions of his siblings. He pinched the bridge of his nose and then just said it, “You are the only one here that has ever almost killed-“

“Shut the fuck up, Luther.”

Allison tried a soft warning in vain, “Guys. Let’s just sit and talk.”

“I just said that I thought the circumstances were unusual and warranted investigating,” Luther told the room as a whole. His big hands were spread out in front of him, extending into the limited distance between him and Diego. “He wouldn’t just-“

“Just what, Luther?” Diego demanded in a tight deadly calm. “He wouldn’t just die without telling you? I don’t think he got much of a choice in the matter. No one does.”

“Ben didn’t.”

They both ignored Klaus’ comments, eyes narrowing at the other. Luther insisted, “He was healthy.”

“He was an old man.”

“He cancelled his annual charity Christmas ball this year,” Luther stated like it meant anything. “He’s had that ball every year since I was adopted. He didn’t call any of us on the holidays, which he always does. He wouldn’t have pushed all of us away if he thought that he was going to-“

“He’d pushed all of us away years ago,” Diego insisted, laying out fact after fact. “He was a recluse, who didn’t even attend his stupid charity ball, and hey, maybe he realized that he didn’t actually care about orphans getting Christmas. And maybe he got a clue that none of us were _ever_ going to answer any of his calls and gave up.”

“He wouldn’t have sent me away if he thought – Something isn’t _right_ here. Aren’t you supposed to be naturally suspicious? You’re the detective. Detect something, Diego.”

“I am picking up on something,” Diego nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that whiff of bullshit that I kept smelling every time you opened your mouth must be from how far you have your head shoved up Dad’s ass.”

Luther got to his feet so quickly that the chair beneath him nearly fell backwards, and Diego tensed. He let the knife in his sleeve drop into his hand, let his teeth grind together and his vision got black with anticipation, with violent intention, and then his radio screeched with static.

The radio came to life, spitting out an address and a location, and a call for available officers. Diego didn’t break eye contact with Luther as he unclipped it, responding with his ETA.

“Shit, is that Griddy’s?” Klaus complained. “I loved that place.”

“Now it’s a crime scene.”

Diego shouldered past his brother, and Luther asked, “What about the service?”

“Do it without me,” He spat. “I have real victims to help. And who knows, maybe I killed them too.”

“If Diego doesn’t have to go, do I?”

“Shut up, Klaus.”


	2. Daydreaming About Things That Do Not Matter At All

Griddy’s Doughnuts stood at the intersection of past and present.

It was in a kind of stasis all its own, a neither now nor then moment, a neither here nor there location that emitted a pulsing neon glow. He felt neither thirty nor thirteen as he passed under the yellow crime scene tape and flashed his badge to the officer.

He didn’t feel like a cop either, or a superhero, or a kid. He felt weird because today was weird and tiring, and annoying, and he had never been anybody except someone looking for salvation.

Griddy’s had been salvation once.

It was a place ingrained into his own history, part of a past that stretched painfully back. It functioned as a marker, a placeholder, a beacon that offered warmth and food, and soft-touched memories. It was as much a safe haven as the bowling alley, and speech therapy, and _Mom_ had been.

They’d only ever went to Griddy’s when it felt like the world was about to end so, this was fitting.

He could have laughed. He wanted to.

Dad was dead, and Mom was god knows where, and it would be selfish to call her back because he wanted her there. Luther thought that he was a murderer, and Ben…

It made complete and total sense that the first time he’d stepped foot inside of Griddy’s in the past ten years, it would be with shattered glass crushed under his boots.

There was a body at the counter.

Six in total, an officer had reported to him.

The pink of the inside was stained with red and the white tarnished with gun powder and bullets, and the covered feet of CSI. The jukebox in the corner was flickering a neon light, groaning and struggling with three gunshots in its exterior. The needle on the record was stuck, the speakers blown, gurgling out in a deep and methodically slow repeat, _‘No, you can’t go back. No, you can’t go back. No, you can’t go back. No, you can’t-‘_

If he closed his eyes and he held his breath to the taste of gunpowder and blood on his tongue than he could almost taste strawberry glaze on his lips. If he blocked out the jukebox and ignored the body at the counter, and the bodies on the floor than he could hear Luther’s faint order for coconut cream filling and could feel the cold touch of pulling their change together for root beer and extra sprinkles.

If he kept his eyes squeezed shut and his fists clenched than he could feel the words filling his mouth and struggling to come out, the soft stuttered pleas that they were okay. It was red paint, not blood. _Don’t call the police._

If he focused on nothing and let the past eat him like a monster’s teeth than he could feel water in his shoes and the swell of relocated joints, and the dizzied way that neon lights looked through a concussion.

If he thought about it, he’d remember his first kiss with a girl too old and too weird even for him but then he’d also remember the cold emptiness of Klaus’ absence in the week that Dad sent him away without explanation. He’d then remember the flat Sprite and stale eclairs that accompanied his return and how Klaus didn’t eat.

If he thought about anything than he’d think about the _last time_. He’d think about the stiff heavy weight of the suit he wore to Ben’s funeral, how he didn’t cry and didn’t know why, and punching Klaus for the first and last time in this stupid parking lot. He’d think about the vow he made to never come back, and how today was a lot about breaking vows.

He could taste everything go sour on his lips.

He felt like spitting.

“I don’t remember this place being such a shithole.”

“Didn’t you used to come here as a kid?”

The question was accompanied by a jarring slap on his back and Diego’s knife dropped from his sleeve into his hand before he opened his eyes. He gritted his teeth, cutting a look sharper than any blade to Beaman and piercing him with it. 

“Don’t skewer the messenger,” He said, holding his hands up in an easy surrender. He laughed to defuse the situation, but Diego didn’t feel defused. He felt like a raw nerve. “My niece has been obsessed with the comics since birth, she’s started reading your sister’s book. She wanted me to take her to this place today, actually. The real Spaceboy and Rumor used to eat here, apparently.”

“Lucky you were working then.”

Beaman nodding, “Tell me about it.”

“Yeah, we used to come here,” Diego confirmed, he didn’t know why. It came out like a threat. He slid his knife back up his sleeve as the jukebox kept saying in a low haunt, _no, you can’t go back._

Griddy’s was a place in the past.

He waved a hand towards the radio, “Will someone turn that shit off?”

“They’re working on it. The wiring is a mess over there.”

“Work faster.”

The newspaper on the counter said ‘March 24th,’ said ‘City Says Goodbye to Reginald Hargreeves,’ and Diego has never felt his father’s presence more. He was everywhere.

The newspaper was next to a plated doughnut, next to the man. Dark hair, heavy build, dead.

There were six bodies in total, Beaman told him, repeating the officer’s words. Four in the front, two in the back. The shooters were gone.

That got Diego’s attention, “Shooters, as in plural?”

“In theory,” Beaman nodded. “Two of them.”

“Anybody got a description?”

“Not a good one,” He said. “No cameras, nothing caught on traffic cams either, got one witness, the waitress, who apparently didn’t witness much. She got the make and model of the car that pulled up before she went to the back to get more change for the register. She swears that there were two people in the car, never saw their faces.”

“Great.”

“There’s a BOLO out on the car,” He added. “Patch has every patrolman she could find out there banging on every door in a five-mile radius. Got roadblocks up all over town.”

Diego’s gaze fell back to the man at the counter, gray suit, black socks, blood in his eyes. “Patch is here?”

“First on the scene,” He said. “She’s talking to the witness, last I saw. Or, at least, trying to. She’s pretty shaken up.”

The man at the counter’s roots were lighter than the rest of his hair. He wore an expensive suit, but it was well-worn and his shoes were scuffed and old. His watch was cheap on his wrist in comparison to the double-breasted suit, both were covered in blood.

As was the chocolate doughnut beside him.

As was the newspaper.

His body was slumped over the perma-sticky linoleum counter like he had thought about running away but thought it too slow. The bullet had pierced the back of his skull and exploded out of his forehead, coating everything in a mist of brain matter.

The counters were never truly going to be clean again.

The only thing that he could think was, gross.

So, he said, “Gross.”

“Would you like to impart any more of that helpful insight on the rest of us, Detective Hargreeves?”

The drawl of Eudora’s voice had appeared just as her presence, with this gravitational pull that took all his attention. She gave him a half-amused smile like the set up for a witty response, but it stung with the suddenness of a needle. He felt woozy with her near, like a balloon hemorrhaging air.

There was nothing that could be done except to move on.

They broke up – move on.

Eudora knew what she wanted – top score at the academy, to make detective before thirty, to own a house, to have kids. She wanted children someday, wanted Diego to move in, and stop showing up to work with bruised ribs and split knuckles. She wanted him to get rid of his knives, to see a therapist, to say he wanted a life that he didn’t know how to have.

He didn’t want to be a dad, how could he? How would he even know how?

His father abandoned him when he was two and the one that raised him made it so that he needed bruised ribs and sharp knives to breathe. Diego never loved anything that he didn’t break, and he loved Eudora.

Everything moved too fast, too soon, and it broke, and they broke up.

It was fine.

They were different people at different times in their lives, and if they ever someday met up at the right time than, who knows. Maybe someday, they’ll try again, but in the meantime, they were friends, partners, normal.

So, he was normal.

He said dumbly, “This guy got his just desserts or what?”

It landed like blood in a congealing mess on the floor, but Beaman snorted so there was that.

“That one has a butter knife in his eye socket,” She said, and Diego almost thought that he was going to be accused of killing that guy too, but she continued, “This is a once in a blue moon type of situation.”

Beaman nodded, “I’m inclined to agree.”

“Tell me what you got,” Diego said, eyes meeting hers. The jukebox was still playing _no, we can never go back._

She looked away first, it felt like winning.

“We’re not sure if there was an intended target or if this was a happenstance of random violence,” Eudora – _no,_ Patch when they were working – said. There was something in her voice when she spoke, something resolved. She’d already made up her mind.

“You don’t think it was random.”

“I thought that the captain gave you the week off,” She countered.

“He did,” Diego shrugged. “It didn’t stick. Why wasn’t it random?”

“Each victim has four slugs in them,” She said with a reluctant sigh, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “It is extreme, but practical. They took out the knees to stop running away, chest and then head. It’s quick. It’s effective. Mr. Torres over there fought back hard and that was why he got knifed.”

She moved towards the man at the counter and Diego followed her. She continued, “Everybody except him. Two shots.”

“A pretty effective headshot though.”

“Through the back, not the front like everybody else,” She pointed out, taking the man’s stiff arm and showing him his hand. Diego could see the blue of her blouse through the hole in the center and winced, “They shot him through the hand?”

“CSI says it happened before he was dead.”

“You think he was the target?”

“I think that you should listen to our captain and go home.”

Diego ignored the comment, asking, “This guy got any ID?”

“No, but-“

“Damn.”

“With everything going on, do you think that it’s a good idea for you to be here?”

“When it rains, it pours,” Diego drawled, eyes scanning over the crime scene for something that he missed. This place no longer felt like a memory, and his eyes felt sharper because of it. He was missing something, he knew it. “It’s always fucking raining, so what’s new? We got names for the rest of the vics?”

“Yes,” She sighed. “Have you gone to see your family?”

They were on good terms, post-breakup.

It’d only been three days and he didn’t work two of them, but only seven people have died since they broke up so… Diego sighed.

The breakup was agreeable, so he didn’t snap or feel angry about her question, just tired. They were friends first and friends now, and she was concerned so he told her, “Klaus is out of rehab again.”

“Sober?”

He snorted a laugh and her face passed from stoic cop to something like ‘girlfriend,’ like ‘partner’ and ‘best friend,’ and ‘I love you.’ She put her gloved hand over his bruised knuckles and they both knew how he got them, so she doesn’t ask.

She asked instead, “How are you, really?”

He missed his mom.

Reginald was dead, and Luther was accusing him of murder. Ben was still dead, and Klaus was drunk, and Reginald was _ashes_. He felt like he should feel something like freedom, that he should feel _glad_ that he was dead, _relieved_ , and he _did,_ but he also felt a stabbing in his gut like loss.

He didn’t lose anything that he hadn’t already lost, so – he felt bad.

He felt weird.

He shrugged his shoulders and didn’t say anything. She got the gist of it and squeezed his hand.

“Got any idea on why this guy would’ve been the target?” He asked, pulling his hand back.

She let it go and sighed, giving in as she gestured him around to the other side of the man. There was a clear rectangle of tiled floor in the blood splatter. Diego noted, “Something was here.”

“That amazing Hargreeves insight again.”

“There any sign of it?” He asked. “Looks like it could be a briefcase or something.” 

He looked around and then at the swinging door leading to the kitchen. Eudora’s hand crossed in front of him when he moved towards it, “Not yet. CSI hasn’t processed the scene back there.”

“So, it could be back there.”

“It could be, but you’ll never know. You’re not going back there. You’re going home. Captain’s orders.”

“Eudora.”

“Don’t call me that here.”

“Patch,” He revised, looking at the door and the handprint left on it. “There’s a hand print in _blood_ on the door. It could be one of the shooters’ blood. They could be back there hiding, injured.”

“Hargreeves,” She warned as the as the jukebox finally cut out. It was unbearably quiet, and her voice felt too loud and thick in the room. He met her eyes, but didn’t hear a word when she said, “Don’t piss off the captain.”

His eyes went unfocused and he tilted his head to the side, letting everything fade into white noise until it was just the sound of his breathing. Then he held his breath.

He took another step towards the door.

She pinched him, “Are you listening to me?”

“Shhh,” He whispered lowly, ignoring the way that her grip on his arm had adjusted from restricting to restraining until it fell slack. She heard it too.

There was the faintest sound just beyond the door, something that music had been hiding. It sounded like the tear of rubber shoe treads off a sticky floor. It was like someone was passing or bouncing back and force on their feet.

“Did you hear that?” He asked, feeling a grin pull at his face as he withdrew his gun. “Told you that they were hiding in the back. You go left, I’ll go right.”

“Wait, we need to call for-“ She said just as low, hissing when he pushed through the door. “Diego!”

She followed, her own gun drawn.

The kitchen had met much of the same fate as the front, and then some. The stainless steel was littered with bullets, coated with a fine mix of flour and gun powder, and the floor sticky with blood and spilt doughnut glaze.

The employee and the one customer that made it through the door died where they had fell. Their footsteps hardened in the glaze, gathering around a high shattered window and the locked back door.

There weren’t any footsteps facing the walk-in freezer but that was where the noise was coming from. Diego let his mind supply theories of sidestepping into the cold as he readjusted his grip on his gun.

He grinned.

He felt something like anticipation edge into his fingers, and a smile pull at his lips as he gestured to Eudora to circle the center island to the other side.

She knocked against the steal door and Diego called out, “Might as well surrender, buddy. Ain’t no other way out.”

When he got no response, he said, “We’re giving you to the count of three and then we’ll bring you out.”

After another beat, Eudora held up three fingers. Diego counted them down, and at zero, she threw open the door.

He didn’t get another word out edgewise, had barely taken a step forward when he was sudden and forcefully shoved backwards. His breath was knocked out of him and his head cracked against a hanging pan.

In the frenzied mess and the fight, he heard Eudora call out, but it doesn’t register in his mind until he was aware that the steel in his hand was a knife. The sharp edge of it, piercing the neck of-

“Shit.”

For a second, all Diego can see is Ben.

Messy hair, Blue Uniform. Red Blood. Ben.

He felt it settle into immobile limbs like the words he couldn’t say. He couldn’t think so he couldn’t visualize the action, so he couldn’t move. Frozen.

He blinked once. Twice.

Brown eyes turned to angry green ones and black hair faded to brown. The baby fat that accompanied Ben’s face had ate down to strong indignity, to fury, to a hand pushing the knife away and ripping away from him.

Eudora settled her hand on the guy’s – no, the _kid_ ’s shoulder to keep him there and then wrapped her hand around Diego’s wrist. She forced his hand open, telling him firmly, “Give me the knife.”

The kid was wiping at the small trail of blood on his neck, looking at the red on his fingers. Diego couldn’t look away from it, couldn’t move as his insides screamed, _See, Eudora! See! I should never be around children! Do you see now?_

 

He no longer felt frozen in old memories.

He didn’t feel haunted with it. He didn’t feel as if the past was bleeding into the present or as if he was standing in that doorway between here and there, and then and now. He didn’t feel weighted by it, didn’t feel as if he shuffling through shifting narratives of past moments. He felt here.

He _was_ here.

Painfully. Presently. Here.

He was standing outside of Griddy’s in the mess of police vehicles and pop-up tents, being rained on. He didn’t remember even walking outside, but this moment was solidifying itself into a long list of bad memories, horrible thoughts.

He couldn’t even remember what he did with his gun, or with the knife from his holster, or where Eudora went, but he was _here_ and nothing about it felt alright.

He felt as if he was standing on the edge of someone else’s nightmare.

The sky was dark when it shouldn’t be.

He could have sworn that the morning news hadn’t called for umbrellas and raincoats but the midday sun that should have painted the sky in yellows and oranges was somewhere hidden thick humidity and dark heavy clouds. The electric charge in the air was palpable and the rain was drowning, and everything felt melted.

Diego stood in the middle of it all.

He just watched.

With the dark skies above them and the light from the on-sight ambulance, the kid looked washed out and pale. His eyes appeared darker and sunken, his face shifting between a child and an old man, and a corpse. He looked ghostly – _dead_ , his mind whispered, _you almost killed him._

Diego pushed the thought away.

When asked if there was anything that he needed, the kid said, “Coffee. Black.”

The words hung in the air like the moment before a crack and a break, before a breakup. It was like a joke without a punchline or a laugh track, or a meaning. It was said with a drumroll that kept going, and going, and nothing came from it.

Nothing, but a collective breath being exhaled.

The paramedic, Jaimy, had cracked a smile and joked, “That’s exactly how I like my men.”

The kid looked as unamused with the joke and the plastic cup of tepid water that Eudora got for him as he did with the glass that was being pulled from his hand, “Hilarious.”

“Thank you.”

Maybe it was shock.

Diego felt shocked.

He’d held a knife to a kid’s throat. He pressed the blade in so hard that it had sliced the thin skin of his jugular, and he-

“Are you okay?”  

He looked away from the kid so fast that it was jarring, finding Eudora at his side. She looked concerned as he nodded, “Y-yeah. Yeah. I – I- yes. I’m fine.”

“I know you’re not going to listen to me when I say that you should go home,” She said with a sigh, pulling on his holster so he was bodily turned away from the kid. She leaned in close and slid his gun into his holster, “I’m going to ask anyways.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” She sighed. “Don’t be hard on yourself. We’ve never dealt with something like this and everybody is on high alert. He came after you first, I’m sure that the Captain will understand that.”

“He’ll understand that I almost knifed a kid?”

“He knocked your gun out of your hand.”

“Don’t justify this, Patch. I know you don’t believe it.”

“I’m not,” She said. “It’s going in my report and some kind of action will be taken, and hopefully you use this opportunity to realized that carrying all those knives around are-“

“God, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Okay,” She said in the tone that said that it wasn’t _okay,_ that justified their breakup all over again. “Okay, I have to radio this in and give the captain an update. Will you keep an eye on the kid, he looks like the type to run.”

He nodded sharply, turning himself back to the cut on the kid’s neck. He watched it bead with blood from before being wiped away with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of red that shifted every time the kid turned to glare at the paramedic, “I don’t need a blood transfusion, so you don’t _need_ to know my blood type.”

Diego blinked his eyes, forcing himself to feel like more like himself and push forward, “Why don’t you tell the nice lady anyways, out of the kindness of your heart.”

“Why don’t you piss off and give me some peace of mind away from your idiocy, Detective?” The kid sneered, ripping his newly bandaged hand away from the paramedic to cross his arms. “ _Out of the kindness of your heart?”_

The mocking tone felt almost normal, and was surprising enough from such a well-dressed kid that it made Jaimy hide a smile in her sleeve as she added to his chart. Diego narrowed his eyes at him, _brat_.

The kid seemed to know exactly what he was thinking because he gave him a smug look. It cracked into a laugh when Diego waved a hand at him and asked, “Is this shock or is this guy just this big of an asshole, Doc?” 

“I can assure you, Detective, this is very much all me,” He said easily, batting away the disinfectant wipe the paramedic had for his neck. “As I can assure you that I am fine.”

“The doc needs to know what you’re allergic to for the forms.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

Diego crossed his arms, looking over the kid’s blood splattered face and big eyes, and the awkward why he was crossing his arms with a cup in hand, “What’s your name, kid?”

“I’m not a kid,” He said, eyes flickering away from Diego’s for a second to something behind him.  Diego followed his gaze to the black body bag being wheeled out of the shattered front door.

He moved to block the view, “Were you with anybody? A parent?”

“No.”

“The waitress said that you were there with your father, that you left before everything happened.”

“She was clearly wrong,” He said. “I came for a cup of coffee, alone. Though, she is right, the truck driver left before the shooters showed up.”

“Did you see them?”

“I saw their bullets.”

“Is that all?” Diego asked, observing the blue and red under the blood splatter. The paramedic confirmed that other than his hand, the kid was uninjured, but he was wearing so much blood. “Were you near the man at the counter?”

“When he was shot, yes,” He said the words in a clipped professional tone, but his body betrayed him. His shoulders curled in and his eyes downshifted to the rain puddled on the ground. He was a kid, Jesus.

“That’s an interesting uniform,” Diego said.

The kid looked up sharply, said defensively, “It’s a school uniform.”

“Shouldn’t you be in school then?”

“Shouldn’t you be doing your job instead of harassing me?” He shot back.

“I am doing my job,” He shrugged. “Why did they leave you alive?”

“Why don’t you find them and ask, Detective?” He asked back sarcastically, the lost look in his eyes disappearing into a defensive sneer. “I dropped my pen and it rolled behind the counter. I went to get it when the man beside me at the counter was shot. I ran into the back and hid in the freezer. They must have thought that I escaped.”

“That’s pretty lucky.”

“It wasn’t luck.”

Diego opened his mouth to respond but closed it at the barked order of his police captain, “Hargreeves, over here. Now.”

“Looks like I’m getting that piece of mind after all.”

Diego sent the kid a weathered look, asking, “What’s your name?”

“Most call me Five.”

“Is that short for something?”

“If you want it to be, Detective.”

 “Hargreeves, _now.”_  

Captain Astrid Keeley was a gruff man, weathered by everything that the city had to throw at him and more. He was edging towards retirement and with every step, the less patient he got, and he never had any patience for Diego, “Yes, sir?”

“I thought that I told you that I didn’t want to see you this week.”

“You did, sir.”

“Why am I seeing you here?”

“I was in close proximity,” Diego justified. He might as well had said that he was running away from his family because Keeley saw through him. He stuck stubbornly to his guns, “This seemed like an all hands on deck type of situation.”

“You’re not supposed to be on the damn boat, Hargreeves,” He grunted. “Now listen, you’re a good officer so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“About what?”

Diego thought he’d say about the kid, about the knife clearly missing from his holster. He thought he’d say a hundred other things but not, “How’d you get those bruises on your hands?”

“What? I-“ Diego stuttered, squeezing his hands into fists as he looked at the bruised knuckles like it was the first time. He looked up and maintain eye contact, “Boxing, sir.”

“And where were you last night?”

“Home, at the boxing ring. All night.”

“All night?”

“What’s this about?” He asked even though he already knew. “I hit the punching bag and swept the floor, and then turned in early. I’m sure that there’s security footage at the gym that can verify that. There’s a camera at the front door.”

“I’m sure that is exactly what we’d see,” He said. His eyes narrowed and his mouth pulled into a frown like a man who did just that. He didn’t believe him.

Diego played dumb, “What’s this about, sir?”

“A masked man stopped an attempted armed robbery last night,” He said. “The woman got away and the robber got a trip to the emergency room. He claims a man with knives beat him up.”

“Wow, is that woman okay?”

“She will be.”

“Good,” Diego nodded. “She was lucky that there was someone looking out for her, but like I said before. I’ve left all that stuff behind me and I was home all night.”

“These vigilante sightings that have been popping up recently, they’re going to stop,” HE stated. “If I hear anything even resembling your name or those stupid comic books than you’ll be working the beat for the rest of your career. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get out of here. That week off was not a suggestion,” He told him, calling back over Eudora.

He was going to put her in charge of the task force. Diego knew that he would and that she deserved it above everybody else. He knew that he was supposed to leave but found himself wandering back over to where the kid sat in the ambulance, his jacket was folded over beside him and his shoes gone.

He looked bored, raising an eyebrow at Diego’s return, “Detective.”

“Ow long were you in there, kid?”

“I already told the female detective.”

“Yeah, and now you’re telling me.”

Five’s bored expression shifted into a glare, “When will I get my shoes back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then neither do I.”

Diego sighed, “Kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” His eyes focusing on something else behind Diego. He turned to see what it was and when he turned back, the kid was gone.

“What the-“ Diego felt his stomach bottom out. He felt all the same panic that he’d felt the first time holding Claire and the first time he lost sight of her in public. His eyes scanned everything beyond the yellow tape, breathing out when he spotted the kid crossing the street.

He followed, jogging over to him, “Hey!”

“What do you want?” The kid asked, barefoot in the rain and covered in blood, as if Diego having concerns about that was unreasonable. “I’m busy.”

“Where are you going?”

“Places,” He said and then stuck out his hand, “Give me a dollar.”

Diego blinked, “What?”

“I gave the waitress my last five and didn’t get my change back,” He sighed, like explaining this was exhausting. It probably was. “Give me a dollar for the bus and I’ll tell you whatever you want me to repeat.”

“I’ll do you one better, kid. I’ll give you a ride home.”

“That’s – that’s not better.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shockingly, this was not supposed to be where Chapter 2 ended either, but Diego finally met Five. Woo. 
> 
> Thank you everybody who has read this story and thank you to all of you have that left comments and kudos, subscribed and bookmarked. It means the world.


	3. The Question Still Entertains Me

“What are you doing?”

The car door was jerked out from under his hand as he was pulling it shut. There, then gone. His fingernails scraped against the hard plastic of the handle, bending almost backwards with the force that it was ripped away from him and making his teeth ache with a wince.

The question was a repeated harsh demand, “ _What_. Do you honestly _think_ that you are doing right now?”

“I, uh…” Diego grunted, still leaning out of the car with one foot pressed against the wet pavement. His hand was stuck hanging in the middle distance, grasping at air, at words. He felt stupidly, and suddenly like he was eight years old again and Mom just caught him trying to use Klaus for target practice. He felt caught and his mind went numb, “I was, um, I, well…”

“Very informative,” Eudora said, voice lacking any real heat because it was stuck beneath a firm and frozen incredulous. She had a jerky half-smile on her face, the kind that tiptoed the tightrope between hilarity and anger, an ever present _unsurprise._

Diego was exactly the kind of dumb and reckless disregard for authority that she had pegged him for in the academy and he was proving spectacularly that he never changed – _would_ never change. There was no different person, just him, always not surprising her.

“Babe-“

 “Because,” She hissed through her teeth in a concealed professionalism. “ _Because_ , Diego, it looks like you’re trying to get out of here with one of my _only_ witnesses.”

It _did_ look like that, he mentally conceded. It looked like that because that was exactly what he was doing. He said to her, “I’m not doing that.”

“Really.”

“Really,” He repeated slowly, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as the words came into a kind of focus. They were fuzzy on their edges, faded in the middle, dark the way that blood could be when there was too much of it.

Diego thought of dark eyes.

He thought of navy uniforms.

He thought of blood. So much blood.

Ben.

“I -the – he said that you already took his statement.”

He forced his eyes open and breathed in air that tasted like rain and copper, and dusty old memories. He centered himself in the present, settling his gaze on the tick in Eudora’s jaw as her teeth ground tighter together.

He focused on her scrunched-up eyebrows, on the freckles heated on her cheek. He thought of words and he said them, “I was just going to take the kid home.”

“I’m not a kid,” Five called primly as he readjusted his seatbelt across his chest in the passenger seat. He ducked his head down as he could meet Eudora’s eyes with a polite smile. “I am being kidnapped by this man, ma’am.”

Diego rolled his eyes, “I thought you weren’t a kid.”

“Abducted, if you will,” He revised with the patient sigh of an overworked mother. “Detective, when am I getting my shoes back?”

Eudora’s gaze never shifted from Diego’s just dropped into a significant look as the kid talked. He knew that she wanted to cross her arms but couldn’t with the umbrella she was holding, so he crossed his instead, “Patch.”

He didn’t say, _get in and let’s run away._

He didn’t say, _today had been so goddamn weird and difficult, and I feel like a mess._

He didn’t say, _did you see Ben first? I saw Ben first._

He said, “You’re getting the inside of my car wet.”

“I’m going to borrow him for a second,” Eudora told Five, pulling Diego out of the driver’s seat by one of his holster straps. He went with the movement easily, already half out of the car.

The door was shut, and he was pushed against it. She leaned into him as the wet of the car sunk into his back. He felt _something_ as she told him, “Keeley just told you not to interfere in this investigation. It’s _my_ investigation, Diego. Do you know what something like this could do for my career? For yours if you piss off the chief of police?”

“And the victims’ families.”

“Don’t pull that card, I care about the victims and their families,” She said, crossing her arms around her umbrella. “And if you did then you’d do this right and go home. You’d drop the vigilante stuff because it’s dangerous and _illegal_ , and you’d take the time off because you _need_ it. You can’t help anybody if you’re locked up or dead.”

“I’m not-“

“Because if you interfere in this, I _will_ arrest you, Diego,” She told him, and she meant it. She put her hand on his hip, unclipping his radio before he could blink, “I’m confiscating this.”

“Go for it,” He said, almost like flirting. “Surplus practically gives them away for free.”

“And I’m taking this,” She said, pulling his knife from earlier out of her pocket. A smile wavered over the strict professionalism on her face as she pulled the second knife from his holster, “And this one.”

“No skin, baby. I bought them on eBay.”

She looked unimpressed but amused, and he could deal with that. This was normal. This was them. Hargreeves and Patch. Eudora and Diego. Good cop and bad-at-relationships.

For the first time since walking outside, he felt like he could breathe. He felt like he could take in a breath and it wouldn’t be clouded in old memories, it wouldn’t stick to the inside of his lungs. The ground was not crumbling, the sky would not explode, and he was very far away from that kid that couldn’t picture the words to talk.

He could feel the blood tingle warm into his fingers, feel his cocksure and confidence slip back beneath the surface. He no longer felt like his bones were going to shake out of his skin when she put her hand on his chest. He grinned and she scoffed, “Shut it before I tase you.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your idiotic actions speak much louder than anything you have to say, and this,” She said, pulling his domino mask out of his inner pocket. Neither of them were smiling then. “Stop it.”

She didn’t give the mask back, crumbling it in her hand before dropping it on the ground. It could have been the incentive he needed, the thing that said _cop_ and not _comic book hero._

It could have been the one thing that he needed.

That said, _Dad is dead, you can stop trying to impress him now._

That said, _you’re allowed to have nice things._

That said, _stop._

He could have stopped.

He could take the week off and try to fix the gap that was crumbling between him and his siblings, between him and Eudora. He could take the week off and breathe a little. He could check out a therapist, check out a movie.

 _God_ , when was the last time he’d seen a movie?

“That’s littering.”

Diego stiffened at the voice and the tap on the glass behind him. All those maybes slid off him like water on leather, and he picked up the mask. He told Eudora, “The kid is right.”

“I’m just taking him home,” He added in a breath. “I figure that the kid has been traumatized enough without having to stick around for CSI to bring the bodies out.”

Eudora sighed and opened the door, “He’s not taking you home.”

“I’ve already sacrificed my address,” Five told her. His wet navy socks were pressed against the dashboard, leaving red smudges when he dropped them to the floor to sit up straighter. He looked old, and bored, “It would be a sacrifice made in jest if the idiot did not drive me to my location. And I don’t have shoes.”

“He doesn’t have shoes, Eudora.”

“Shut up,” She said, and then sighed. She pulled her head out of the car and called to Beaman, “I’m taking the kid home. Wrap up here and meet me back at the station. Keep me posted.”

He nodded, “Got it, Boss.”

She nodded back, getting into the passenger seat.

It was a reverse of roles. She pulled the door shut and he stopped it because, “What are you doing? This is my car.”

“I’m driving,” She said. “I’m going to take him home and then I’m going to drop you off. You can pick up your car at the station tomorrow. Maybe one of your brothers can take you, but for now, get in the car.”

Diego rolled his eyes, “Seriously?”

“Yes,” She said, turning the keys still in the ignition. “Now, get in.”

“Hey, kiddo,” Diego said, giving the kid the biggest smile that he could muster. He got the worst glare back. “How cool would it be to be able to tell all of your little friends about how you rode in the back of a police car?”

“I don’t know,” Five drawled out bored. “Let me know how it goes when you tell your friends how you rode in the back of an unmarked police vehicle.”

Eudora snorted.

Diego’s smile dropped, “Get in the back, kid.”

“No thank you, Detective.”

“I’m not messing around, kid, and I’m not in the mood.”

“Neither am I, Detective,” Five shot back, staring into his eyes with a look that did not waver. “I am wearing someone else’s blood and did not get my coffee. I am tired, and I am not a kid. So listen to Detective Patch and get in the car.”

Diego hissed, feeling something pissed off and familial about the exchange, but it wasn’t Luther putting his hand on his shoulder to stop him from kicking Klaus into the next fucking year. It wasn’t Klaus, it was a kid. It wasn’t Luther, it was Eudora, “Diego, just get in the car.”

He sent a glare to the kid but realized that he was just glaring at a kid that was a victim of a massacre, so he dropped it and got in the back of the Sedan. He listened to the kid rattle off his address again.

He listened to him tell Eudora that it was the white house on Murdock Avenue, the one with the overgrown grass and the high sunflowers in the yard, and then told her, “I put the address in the GPS. Just follow the way.”

His GPS gave instructions out in Spanish.

Diego used to speak Spanish fluently as a kid and had lost it at some point after being adopted. It’d been a few years since he started to reteach himself the language, but he had never bothered to change the language on his GPS.

The kid apparently didn’t speak the language, glaring at it and then out the window.

Diego leaned into the front seat and watched as the kid absently scratch at the dry blood on his sleeve, glaring out the window. He wondered if the blood was his and then clapped his hands together, “So, Saint Agnes, huh?”

The kid didn’t look away from the window, “Shouldn’t you have a seatbelt on.”

“Yeah, probably,” He said dismissively. Eudora turned left, giving him a warning sign to not upset the kid any further. Diego ignored the look because the kid wasn’t upset, he was annoyed. There was a difference.

People gave up more when they were annoyed, “I’ve seen that crest before, the one on your uniform.”

The kid hummed, not even sparing a glance at Diego’s reflection in the mirror. It was a more than a little rude, but it was something that he’d let slide as he pressed forward, “That’s up on sixth, right?”

“Who knows, Detective.”

“You do, a smart guy like you,” Diego tried easily, trying to take to him in the encouraging easy way that he has spoken to Claire. The problem was that he’d only ever seen Claire three times in her life and only once when she could talk back.

“It’s that place with the nuns,” He stated. “My brother – Ben. He’d been there for a few years before he was adopted. He wore the same uniform the first time we met.”

Diego remembered telling Ben that he should go back from where he came from. He remembered being ten and Ben being ten, and learning that their birthdays were only a few days apart. He remembered telling him that Reginald was never going to love him.

He remembered looking into dark eyes, and navy uniform, and the deep red of bloody skinned knees and pleading that he didn’t tell anybody that he pushed him. He remembered saying sorry, saying that Mom would love him.

He remembered vowing to be best friends forever.

He blinked.

“He wasn’t that much younger than you are now when we met. That’s the reason I froze in there, why I –“ _pulled a knife_ was not said. Diego sighed and continued, “You reminded me of him.”

Five turned his head and gave him a smile like he didn’t care, but also thought that Diego was too stupid to figure that out, so he also vocalized the fact, “I don’t care.”

“Saint Agnes is an orphanage.”

“Wow,” He said sarcastically. “Wow, thanks, Detective. I was unaware of that.”

“Alright, smartass,” Diego rolled his eyes back. “I was an orphan too, just like you.”

Five’s jaw jutted out before disappearing back into his face, flashing from an emotion to quick to catch into an unbothered expression. His voice was a flash freeze, “The difference between you and me, besides intelligence, is that you were adopted by a billionaire, Detective _Hargreeves_. I was not.”

“I didn’t – so, you know my name,” Diego sighed.

“You have a nametag.”

“You know my name. It’s only fair that I know yours too, your real one.”

“It’s Five.”

“is that short for something? For Francis?”

“Yeah, sure.” Diego looked at the window’s reflection, watching the way the kid’s mouth flickered up when he said. “Francis Bacon.”

“The artist, funny.”

“The Lord Chancellor, actually,” He said. “You missed the exit.”

“The GPS said to turn this way.”

“It’s wrong.”

“It’s taking you home,” Diego said. “I know this trick. You give me an address and you hid out on the porch, or maybe you know the people that live there and they cover for you. You wait for us to leave and go somewhere else, the library, I guess.”

Five breathed out through his teeth, slouching down before straightening up. It was the only outward sign that he was found out. Diego pressed for more information, “Why don’t you tell me what your name is. Your friends call you Five.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“What’s your name?”

Five’s hand on the door handle had blood under the nails. He had blood still on his cheek, on the angry blush crawling up his neck. He had splattered across his blazer and the white of his collared shirt. He blinked, green eyes going shiny and then hard.

Something clicked in Diego’s mind, something like proximity and the man at the counter, “Did you see a case in Griddy’s, like a briefcase?”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Just think for a second, kid,” He said, pulling on the kid’s shoulder so he looked at him. “You were next to the man at the counter. Did you see the briefcase beside him or what?”

“Don’t touch me,” He snapped, yanking his shoulder away and then yanking the door open.

Eudora swore and slammed on the breaks as the kid unsnapped his seatbelt. He stumbled into the dashboard with the sudden stop in momentum, slipping out from under hands that reached for him, and took off running the moment his feet were steady on the pavement.

He didn’t get far before there was a hand on his shoulder, hooking into his collar. Diego swore, climbing out of the passenger side door, “We’re already here, asshole.” 

The surprised expression on the kid’s face blinked into a glare, first at Diego and then at the hand on his shoulder. He shook it off and said in all the prim stiffness of someone four times his age, “Sister Mary, we agreed that you would not touch me anymore.”

The nun that stood in front of him let her hand fall to her side before curling it into the grasp of her other hand. She did not seem all that surprised or caught off guard by the kid’s brisk tone, “There’s no running on the church stairs.”

“I know, Sister Mary.”

“And yet.”

“I am in a hurry.”

“You must be,” She said, eyes scanning over the sidewalk and settling on Diego and Eudora. “Your absence was noticed during lectures today.”

“Because I told you that I finished the reading last week,” Five replied, clenched jaw aching with something like fierce indignity, like annoyance only a thirteen year old could muster. “I informed Sister Angela that I would not return to class until the rest of those dimwits have caught up. She should have told you if my presence is that important.”

The patience on Sister Mary’s face wavered as she looked away from Diego and Eudora to Five, giving him a curt warning. Her face morphed into a surprise when the blood on his cheek gave notice to the blood on his neck, on uniform, on his socked feet, “My goodness, what happened to you?”

“I am-“

She turned to them, “Is this boy in trouble?”

“Of course not,” Eudora was quicker to respond. “No. He’s a victim.”

“A witness!”

“To a violent crime,” She continued, taking Five’s correction in stride. “We wanted to make sure that he got home safely.”

“What kind of violent crime? Oh, do not tell me that you were a part of that horrible shooting on the news.”

“I wasn’t a _part_ of-“

“Just the wrong place at the wrong time, surely,” Eudora said, calming the nun’s nerves little by little. Five rolled his eyes. “We had paramedics look him over. He wasn’t hurt, thankfully. He’s been very brave.”

“There must have been someone looking out for you, boy.”

“Yes, _I_ was looking out for me,” Five said, ripping his arm away from Sister Mary again when she rested it on his shoulder. “I am going to my room.”

Diego shared a looked with Eudora that said _I’m following him_ and she sent one back that said _this isn’t your case,_ and _no,_ and _I own a taser._ He tilted his head back towards the kid’s retreating back, nonverbally pointing out that he was not on this case. He was not going to listen to her.

She rolled her eyes, and he called out, “Hey, wait up.”

“No,” Five said, not faltering in his step up the church house stairs. Diego followed him inside, through the common area to the back to the stairs that lead to where the orphans slept.

Diego had been here once when Ben wasn’t to see a friend he knew. He had been jealous that Ben had friends, that he was well liked. He shook that thought away and flicked open his butterfly knife.

“Hey, kiddo, you ever carve your name in the underside of a table?” He asked. “That’s cool with kids.”

“Vandalism,” He stopped just to turn in look at Diego, “Offers the cop.”

“I – yeah?”

“Your idea of what ‘kids’ – which I’m not – do for fun is vandalizing a church? You think highly of your society.”

“Well-“

“I’m not four so carving my name in anything isn’t fun,” He rolled his eyes, turning on his heels and stalking away from him through a heavier door. The noise of chattering children was louder in the hallway with multiple doors. “You do not have to follow me.”

“I’m not following you, kid. I’m just making sure you get to your room safely.”

“I’m not a kid,” He repeated, rounding on him. He looked too old and to big for his young face, finger pointing at the center of his chest. It was practically a shove, “You are _not_ following me. Goodbye.”

“I thought we had a deal. I get you home and you answer my questions.”

“I would prefer cash.”

“I’ll get you some, hell,” He said, grabbing his wallet and finding it empty. _Fucking Klaus._ “How’s quarters sound?”

“Just answer my question.”

“Sure.”

“How did Ben die?”

Diego’s stomach fell out from under him with a sharp intake of breath. He felt stumbled backwards with the force of such a blunt question. He felt sucker punched, “What?”

“In the books, he died because he didn’t listen to The Monocle and conjured a monster from another dimension,” Five said rapid fire and quick. There wasn’t anything mean in his voice, nothing trying to get under Diego’s skin, but fact as sharp as a blade. “He couldn’t control the monster and it tore him to pieces. Hubris killed him in the books, and all accounts of his death in real life are vague, covered up. Is that how it really happened?”

Diego thought of his own hubris and swallowed hard, “Something like that.”

He forced himself to breath, swallowing down the slick swampy feeling that had crawled up his throat and invaded his mouth. He blinked hard away the colored spots in the corners of his eyes, wiped phantom blood from his hands.

He forced himself to focus on context and not words, to focus on now and not then, and he forced himself to grimace a smile, “You read the comics.”

“ _No_ ,” Five scowled. “I _studied_ them.”

“Sure.”

“The morons that populate these _stupid_ halls consider that drivel literature. I studied the obvious flaws in the material, so I could counter any of their pointless arguments if the need arises.”

Diego’s smile felt more genuine at Five’s obvious annoyance about it, “So. You are a fan.”

“ _No,”_ He repeated, crossing his arms. He looked like an actual kid and Diego felt giddy with it. “Some of these idiots actually think you have superpowers.”

“Well, they are children.”

“No excuses,” He said, kicking at the corner of a door and then shouldering it open. “This conversation has been useless. Bye.”

“Ki- wait,” Diego called, reaching out for the kid and thought better of it. “What’s your name? That’s my question. Serious this time.”

Five stared at him incredulously for a second and then rolled his eyes. He pointed up at the number on the door and then slammed it shut. The tarnished silver of the number five shook with the force that it was closed, tilting on its axis.

Diego sighed. He felt duped.

“He’s been here longer than anybody,” sounded from behind him. When he turned around there was a short little girl with blond ponytails and a matching uniform as the kid. She looked like she could have been the same age as Claire.

Diego looked down the hall and back again before asking, “Excuse me?”

“That’s what Sister Jacqueline told me,” She said in the same ‘I-heard-a-rumor’-esque tone that Allison used to tattle on them with. “She’s worked here for like, ever. She said that she was here the day that Five was dropped on the front steps when he was a baby.”

She swished her ponytails around as she looked around them, down the hall and then at the door with the tarnished number five. She dropped her voice into a whisper, “Like literally dropped, like, Sister Angela dropped him. That’s why he’s like that.”

“Like what?”

“Weird,” She answered.

“And – what’s his name? His actual name.”

“The nuns never named him, so we just call him by his room number,” She shrugged. “They say that there’s something bad inside of him.”

She looked away from the door, leaning in the way that he had leaned in before whispering, “Death follows him.”

 

No one wanted to be the first to leave so, none of them did.

They retired to their rooms, one by one, by one, by one, by one. Doors creaked open and then shut, window curtains were drawn against the rain that wouldn’t stop. They all pretended that this was normal.

Things were missing – Dad, Mom, the touches of familiarity, of worry. There was a creepiness of being here. There was a _wrongness._

It was wrong that he could still hear Luther’s music playing softly even though they were supposed to be _sleeping_. Nothing was supposed to work like this in this manor.

Diego had blood under his fingernails and he had no idea whose it was, and of this felt like he was caught between the pages of a misremember book and a movie that didn’t resemble the source material at all. He felt like he was somewhere he’d never been and never left.

Eudora told him once that there were some things that you carried with you forever – the death of a parent, the lose of a brother, a childhood of neglect and abuse. Knives.

He never put anything down.

He felt like he was sliding his fingers through memories that should have stayed covered. He was writing new pages of somebody else’s book, unmaking the bed and messing up the corners that Grace had made the day she left a decade ago. He felt like he had tripped the first wire of a chain reaction that ended with –

 _Apocalypse._ No.

He shook Reginald’s voice out of his ear and settled on what he knew.

Dad was dead.

Dad was crazy.

Dad fucked up every person that walked through the door.

Dad only ever wanted source material.

Their little service had been deservingly pathetic. Dad’s ashes were still sat in a wet pile on the patio with no wind to carry it.

Luther had gone out later to spread the ashes around in the hopes that the rain would take him away but stopped when he realized that all he was doing was stomping on their dead dad. It had admittedly been hilarious.

Klaus had tsked at him when he came back inside with wet shoulders and muddy shoes. He had put his hands on his hips and shook his head, and said, “Some people just carry the dead with them everywhere, don’t they?”

It had almost started a fight, which had almost felt normal. They broke three glass panels in the patio door which _did_ feel normal. Diego could smile at that.

He rolled from his side to his back, swiping the signed baseball off its stand on the corner of his desk and tossed it at the wall. He got a disgruntled noise back, “Fuck off, D.”

“You’re too quiet.”

“I’m sleeping,” Klaus called back through the wall. “I’ve had a tiring day. Rehab’s got me all fucked up.”

Diego hummed, knocking his head back against his bedframe and asked, “Are you watching porn?”

“You’d hear it,” Klaus laughed. There was a beat of silence before he asked, “Why? You want to watch some.”

Diego shook his head, a smile filtering onto his face, but it wavered and fell. He took a breath and said, “Eudora didn’t break up with me. We decided to end it, together.”

They had.

Diego had gone back to her apartment, bruised and bleeding and still wearing that mask. She had taken his knifes from his holster across his chest and on his leg, and she patched him up.

He had made that lame unfunny joke about how he didn’t know where’d he’d be without his Patch and she had said nothing back. They watched the news coverage about his father, watched the shaky news camera of the body being wheeled from the house, and said nothing.

They went to sleep. He slept on the couch and she slept in her room, and in the morning, she said, “I can’t keep doing this.”

He had understood. He had said, “Okay.”

“If that’s what you got to tell yourself, bro.”

Diego blinked hard and breathed out, throwing the ball at the wall hard enough to dent it. It didn’t, bouncing back and rolling across the floor, “Are you doing drugs?”

“Just the drug called life,” He said. “And Xanax.”

“Don’t overdose,” He told him. He rolled his eyes but didn’t get up. He was not a cop for the next week, “I’ll kick your ass if you do.”

“No promises, D.”

Diego signed.

He missed his mom. He missed Eudora.

He wished that he had asked Eudora to stay when she had asked if he needed anything when she dropped him off. He wished that he was malleable enough to admit that he had been wrong, and was stupid, and that he needed her here with him to make any of this bearable.

He had to get acquainted with new sounds that should have been old sounds but didn’t quite manage to be either. Luther’s absurdly pop music playing low. Vanya’s indecision to stay or leave. Allison pacing her bedroom with a conversation that rose and fell. Klaus next door with the occasional curse.

The absence of Ben.

There wasn’t familiarity in this house, there never had been.

Diego rubbed his cheek against the cross-stich on the pillow, watching the shadows under the door as Allison took her pacing to the hall. It felt absurdly like they were all breaking Dad’s rules because they could.

He checked his phone.

Eudora hadn’t texted him back after telling him that she was going to bed, call if he needed. He hovered over her name in his call log before tossing the device down on the bed. He rolled onto his chest and pressed his face into the pillow, feeling like he could scream.

He didn’t because his phone started to ring.

Klaus pounded on the wall with a loud, “Hey, I’m tryin’ to do drugs over here!”

Diego called him a dick, fumbling to answer his phone, “Hargreeves. Who is this?”

“Your phone etiquette leaves much to be desired, as I expected it would,” A dry voice said in response.

Diego blinked, caught off guard, “The boy from Griddy’s.”

“Five.”

“What-“

“I’m outside of Grimbel Brother’s Department store,” He spoke evenly, but urgently. “At the payphones. You have ten minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the official end of what Chapter One was supposed to be. 
> 
> Thanks again to everybody that reading.


	4. The Night Time Stopped Bleeding

“Kid.”

Diego’s voice was a ghost of a whisper, present but intangible. It was felt in the shifting vibrations of the night air, in the fogged breath silently heaved but it took up no space in the silence. It advanced like quiet rain, like his footsteps slow to approach.

He didn’t make a sound, nothing did.

He was the thick set of layered oil paint, slow to dry and quick to fade into the background of a scene never moving. He was cut from a moment and the only thing _breathing_. He was the missing door of a Nighthawk stillness.

He was the emptiness of the streets, the only person left on the outside of the Grimbel’s closed sign. He was alone in this moment, preserved in a held breath and crackling with silent steps. Everything was still.

Everything was frozen.

Grimbel’s was backlit solely by the dim lighting behind their thick windows. The bright daytime lettering on their glass storefront advertising sales and clearance jeans now looked dark, faded blues to blacks and red to blood. The street lights flickered but mostly stayed off, buzzing with the same white noise as the rain and the tick, _tick_ , tick of his idling car from the door left open.

He took step by step, by step in front of the other. He walked heel to toe, heel to toe through stagnant rail puddles. He crossed the street, step by step.

He overtook the curb and the sidewalk and walked with one foot in front of the other towards the line of payphones to the left of the store’s entrance. He made not a sound.

The payphones were shiny red and lit by a single flickering bulb, and they were abandoned of any kind of company as Diego approached. Step, by step, by step, he moved toward the seven red telephones with their silver cords and plastic graffitied dividers. There were rain-soaked phonebooks, old and out of date, falling to pieces, and there was no one.

He put his right foot in front of his left and swallowed down the acidic taste of bad feelings crackling up his throat. He buried the feel deep in his gut, beneath the taste of blood, and leather domino masks, and Ben.

He forced his feet forward, taking the one red telephone that was hanging off the hook in his hand.

The dial tone was deafening.

The smudged blood on the receiver was sickening.

Diego put his hand on his gun. He whispered louder, “Kid.”

“I’m not a kid.”

Five was sitting on the bench at the bus stop across from the payphones, nearly hidden completely in the darkness of the overhanging awning. The shine from the car he borrowed from the garage just barely brushing over the scuffs on Five’s black leather loafers, and Diego felt something like frustration flicker inside of him, “I could have shot you.”

“You should have,” Five said like it was a fact that had already been settled. His eyes were reflective in the darkness, glinting with a shine that matched the one bouncing off the white teeth of his wide smile. “Don’t hesitate like that. It could get you killed next time.”

Diego’s eyed the kid as he came closer, darting over the bandages that were no longer on the kid’s hand, the cut that had scabbed over and was now absently being picked at. He eyed the scuff on the kid’s shoes, the wet navy and the tear in his uniform, and that smile once again, “This is not funny.”

“I can assure you, Detective. I am not laughing.”

“What are you doing out here?” He asked in a hiss that had slithered off his tongue with more heat than intended. He could feel his frustration boil over into anger. He could feel it _bleeding_ into this moment, into this second and he knew that it would _pour_ into this conversation because Five was frustrating.

He took a breath and buried that too.

He slipped into the role of detective. He slipped into the role of _protect and serve_ , and _figure this shit out_. He used a critical eye and dissected the kid in front of him.

There was a strain to the smile on his face and the way that it didn’t _move_. The kid’s hair was disheveled, and his clothes were wrinkled like he had been asleep in them, and a jagged tear down his sleeve. He was hunched over, leaning to the left and picking at his hand.

“Stop that,” He said, gesturing to the kid’s hand. There was blood streaking down the kid’s cheek, “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing I haven’t experienced before and worse,” The kid was quick to say, pulling at the hem of his frayed uniform shorts to show his scraped knees. His smile stayed firm on his face, lips barely moving. It was getting weird.

Well, weirder.

“What is this?” Diego asked, gesturing to his face with a pointed finger. “What’s with the smile, kid?”

“Not a kid,” He said automatically, breathing out irritated through his nose and rolling his eyes. The smile had pulled open a spilt in his lip that hadn’t been there earlier, causing it to bleed down his chin and to dry that way. “They found me.”

Diego’s blood went cold, “Who?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions when you already know the answer,” Five snapped through his grimaced smile. His mouth barely moved at all despite the harsh and biting words. “It is a waste of your time and my more valuable time.”

He rolled his eyes with a heave of his shoulders like he was unloading the words as he continued, “Obviously, the shooters from the diner were the ones that found me. I ran, I fought, I bit. You should swab the inside of my mouth for DNA. I would have but-“

“You were attacked,” Diego repeated, unpacking what was just dumped on him. “The shooters at the diner came after and they-“

“Attacked, yes. Keep up, Detective,” Five rolled his eyes again. “I cannot keep up this inane smile much longer and I do not want to taint the evidence even further.”

Diego snapped his mouth shut and Five did not, continued as heated and frustrated as he could without moving his mouth, “The _moron_ in the drug store will not _give_ me what I need to take a swab myself because I didn’t have money so use your small brain for once in your life and prioritize what is important.”

Diego’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tilted in a sharp-edged frown as Five clenched and unclenched his hands, fingernails digging into the seeping cut. He sounded a measure over calm when he stated, “Evidence, important. Me, not.”

Diego sighed, “Let’s go.”

“I’ll stay here.”

Diego could practically see the argument on the tip of the kid’s tongue as to why he should go, and he wasn’t in the mood to put up with it. He looked back to his car, to the soaked driver’s seat because he had left it open, “Get in the car, lock the door.”

“I’ll consider that, Detective.”

The drug store was across the street on the corner, a blurring neon beacon hovering in the distance with the promise of band-aids. It wasn’t far, so Diego was aware that the kid didn’t get in his damn car like he told him to. He didn’t move from the bench at all.

He took a deep breath.

He entered the store.

The man behind the counter had a nametag that said ‘Juan’ and nimble fingers that restocked cigarettes when Diego walked in. He turned his head towards the door at the sound of the bell, eyes going wide for a second and then he grabbed a bat from the floor.

Diego held up his hands, taking a step back, “Hey, whoa. Whoa, man. Let’s think about this.”

“Are you the detective?”

“I’m a detective, yeah,” He said slowly, edging his hand down slowly to show the badge still clipped to his hip. “Yeah, man. Detective Hargreeves. Why don’t we lower the bat and talk this through?”

“The kid said you’d come, yes,” Juan nodded, dropping the bat like the tension dropped from his shoulders. He muttered about a rude kid and money, and not being paid enough as he ducked down beneath the counter.

Diego almost asked a question, but it hesitated on his lips when Juan dropped a brown paper bag onto the counter with a thud. He told him, “6.95, senor.”

“W-What?”

“I was going to call the cops, the boy said that you would come and pay,” He said as explanation. “I hold his things, you pay.”

Diego sighed again and paid for the contents of the brown paper bag. He looked through the mix of Ziplock bags and Q-tips, permanent markers and marshmallows, and then added band-aids to the bag. He paid for those too.

He barely made it to the bench before the kid snatched the bag out of his hands and demanded, “Swab my mouth.”

“Kid-“

“No talking,” Five waved off, getting out the permanent marker and the Ziplock bags. His smile wavered slightly and then he managed through clenched teeth, “I will tell you what you want after you swab my mouth.”

Diego gritted his teeth and then afterwards, watched as the kid wrote the date and time on the Q-tip filled Ziplock bags with a permanent marker. He took a breath before demanding, “What the hell happened?”

“I was attacked. I’ve told you twice now.”

“Yeah, I’ve got that. _What_ happened?”

“Are you going to take these to the station?” He asked, bundling up the Ziplock bags. “We should talk in a secure location.”

“Kid.”

“My name is Five,” He snapped, hands curling around the bags so tight that the plastic crinkled. “I’m not a kid. I’m thirteen and I’m smarter than you. I called you to help you with the case, not to be treated like an idiot.”

“I-“ Diego breathed out through his teeth, clenching his own hands into fists and then letting it go. He repeated his previous question, “Are you hurt?”

When he got no response, he asked, “How did you get my phone number?”

“From your card,” Five replied, rolling his eyes as he dug the card out of his pocket. He held up the standard police issued card quickly before folding it back into his pocket.

Diego didn’t remember giving the kid his card but thought that maybe Eudora included it when giving him hers, “Why didn’t you call Patch.”

“Because I called you,” He stated bluntly. “Now shut up and listen to me. I can be helpful to the investigation.”

“I get that you want to help, but-“

“You should take notes,” He said, movements slow when he slid off the bench to get into the black duffle bag placed beneath it for a pen and paper. He held the pen and paper out to Diego, red smudged from blood hands.

Diego didn’t a chance to respond to the fact that he was not _fine_ , because he was bleeding because the kid started talking, “We shouldn’t be discussing this information out in the open. You need to take me to the station.”

“Fine, you’re right, there is no time,” Five said dismissively before Diego could open his mouth. He ran his bloody hand into his hair and told him, “There was a man and a woman. The woman seemed more competent, personal opinion, but they worked as a team. I heard the other one call her Cha-Cha. Put that in your report.”

“We’ll get to the report, kid-“

“I escaped out the window,” Five added. “I bit the fat one. You’re not writing anything down.”

Diego placed the pen and paper together in his lap and sighed, “Is there anything that you need.”

“…I’d kill for a decent cup of coffee.”

 

“Sister Angela says that I’m an old soul,” Five said, a cup of coffee sat in front of him. It was bad coffee, but he sipped from it with a grimace.

Black, just like the kid liked.

Burnt, like no one liked.

“Ancient, in fact,” He continued after his sip. “She thinks I’m the antichrist.”

Diego sipped from his own coffee.

He wasn’t particularly fond of the taste, but he was also never one to allow some kid to one up him, even in matters as stupid and petty as this. He mirrored Five’s actions, sipping and then sitting the mug down, “Are you hungry?”

Everything echoed loud at the seconds ticked by, almost countable tangible space in the room, as real and present as they were. The noise of the rain through the broken glass door was different from the Grimbel’s, louder and demanding to be acknowledged.

The monster house _breathed,_ and Diego could feel it humid in the kitchen air.

The kid hadn’t even flinched when he walked in, just trailed in behind Diego with his comedically large duffle bag over his shoulder. He was limping slightly, blamed busted knees for it.

All the impatient tapping and the restless jittering that had suffocated the car ride here had melted into bravery, or stupidity, or whatever it was that made kids think they were invincible. He woke up in cold sweats, grinding his teeth and holding knives, thinking of Ben and that night ten years ago, and this kid didn’t even flinch when Diego put band-aids on his knees.

The kid got shot at and attacked _twice_ , and demanded coffee both times. He entered a monster and commented on the _wallpaper_. He was quiet, but in reflection.

There was a subtle kind of irony in Luther’s radio filtering down from upstairs with Tiffany’s _I Think We’re Alone Now_ because they _were_ alone, but they also weren’t.

They would never be alone as long as they were in this manor, they’d never be left alone from Reginald or his books, or their fucked up childhoods, and there was a subtly in playing that song that he didn’t think Luther was capable of making.

Luther wasn’t _capable_ of seeing that their father was a monster. He was incapable of seeing the scars for what they were, and that they were still bleeding even when his scars were the deepest.

They were alone because Dad was _gone_.

They were alone because Mom was somewhere, because they didn’t know how to be functional adults, least of all siblings.

They were fully. Completely. Alone.

And they weren’t.

The manor was never a home, never a house. It was forty-two bedrooms and nineteen bathrooms inside of one big monster and he was swallowed with adoption papers. His siblings were swallowed and be brought this kid here to be swallowed too.

The kid’s cup clipped the table hard when he sat it down, snapping Diego from his thoughts. He didn’t answer his question, didn’t take his hands from the cup just tapped his band-aided fingers against the glass, “It was probably Sister Angela who let them in. You should look into her.”

“I will.”

Five looked at him like a kid that knew exactly how the system worked and it didn’t work at all, unimpressed with it all. It was a look all too close to home on an orphan’s face when they weren’t _lucky_ , on his own face all those years ago.

Diego looked away, turning bodily towards the cabinets and opening them. The kid was an open wound in some sense, a tear in space and time to a place and while that was _wrong_. The kid was some parallel universe where Ben was Ben in navy blue uniforms, but he _wasn’t_.

The kid didn’t look like Ben.

He _wasn’t_ Ben.

But when Diego looked at Five, all he saw was dark hair and navy uniform, and Ben on that first day. It was wrong.

Ben never had that look in his eyes because Ben didn’t get calloused the way that Diego had, that Five clearly had. He got distant. Ben’s eyes went lost when bad things happened, he shut down.

Five was fighter in words and scraped hands, toughened by the world and untrusting of it all. It all wore on his face and in eyes, and the way that he swung between being thirteen and forty-five.

Ben hadn’t seen the massacre that Five had, hadn’t had to run away from it. The kid was Ben in uniform and hair color, and in the protective way that Diego wanted nothing to do with him and couldn’t leave.

He sighed.

The cabinets were empty except for protein powder, bread, and a half jar of peanut butter. The house really had gone to shit without Mom here.

“Want a sandwich?”

“No.”

He made him a sandwich anyways.

“We’re in a secure location,” He stated. “Just like you said that you needed, so start talking, kid.”

“This is a secure location?” The kid asked skeptically, disbelieving as he eyed the room. “What definition of secure are you using? How is any of this more secure than a polite station.”

“It just is.”

“That’s a terrible answer.”

Diego dropped his butter knife into the sink, “Talk.”

“I like marshmallows on my peanut butter sandwiches,” He stated. Diego grabbed the bag of marshmallows from the brown paper bag. “I’d like better coffee too.”

“Tough,” Diego said, pushing the plate across the table over to him. “Start talking.”

“I heard someone in the hallway,” Five replied, shoving the plate back across the table to him. Diego pushed it back. “Only the nuns are allowed in the hallways after curfew and they know where to step so the floorboards don’t creak. It’s how they catch you sneaking out.”

“And these guys didn’t know where to step.”

“That is the obvious implication, yes,” Five bitt into the sandwich. “I had my suspicions, so I hid under the bed. Their masks were made of metal, like those weird animatronics.”

“How’d’ you know they were metal? You were under the bed.”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe I used my eyes,” He snarked, rolling his eyes in a way that was distinctly thirteen. As impressive as it was that such a high-strung brat could act his own age. Diego was _tired_.

He wasn’t in the mood.

He gave him a flat look, “I’m starting to understand where this Sister Angela is coming from.”

He got an unimpressed look in return and Five stated, “And I understand why Detective Patch dumped you.”

The suddenness of his words and the cold implication of knowing more than he previously thought slapped Diego hard like the icy chill of walk in freezer. The kid didn’t give him time to process, demanding from him when he was caught off guard, “Why am I here and not at the police station?”

Diego blinked the hurt away, “This is safer.”

“Pray tell why you think that,” He said, not sounding like he particularly cared for the answer. His eyes filtered around the room, settling pointedly on the broken panels in the patio door. “I cannot see why you think that.”

“It’s a house where superheroes were created, right?”

“ _Fictional_ superheroes.”

“Not fictional to a true fan like you, right?” Diego asked, feeling the hurt fade into a warm tease. This felt normal.

“I am _not_ a fan,” Five denied venomously. “What happened to that window?”

Diego shrugged, not looking at it, “No one fights like family.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s less paperwork to bring you here,” He said, getting back to safer topics with an excuse that sounded weak even to hm. It was just preferable to bring the kid here, but even here was questionable.

He couldn’t take the kid to his room in the gym’s boiler room, so he brought him to a monster and fed him through the door. He couldn’t bring himself to call Eudora, so he lied, it was better than admitting that he fucked up.  

He knew that he should never have gone to pick up the kid without calling it in first. He should have called Eudora, called the precinct, called _someone_. He should have drove to the station after the kid got in his car. He _should_ be on this case and he wasn’t, so he should back off.

He knew what he should do, and he knew what he was going to do.

“Do you know what would happen if we went to the station?” Diego asked. “You’re a minor. They’re going to wake some overworked social worker who won’t be able to do anything until morning. If they’re in a good mood, your attitude will slash it immediately. They’ll put on in an empty holding cell, or if they’re feeling charitable, the break room. Then-“

“You can save your scare tactics, Detective.”

“We’ll go to the station in the morning,” He stated. “Night shift deals with enough shit already without needing to add your attitude into the mix.”

“It’s their job.”

“We’re going in the morning, talk,” He said, clearing his throat. He pulled one of his knives from his sleeve, flicking open the blade and used it to clear out from under his nails. “You bit one of them. From under the bed?”

Five’s eyes flickered up slowly from the blade and he tilted his head, “You sound like you’re accusing me of something, Detective.”

“I think that you know more about this than you’re letting on.”

“I know a lot of things, so it’s not surprising that you think that.”

“I’m just trying to get the whole picture of how all this happened.”

“Well, don’t strain yourself, Detective,” He said plainly, picking up his coffee mug. Diego sat his knife down harder than he needed to.

“How – you were under the bed,” Diego repeated, ignoring the way that the kid had sat up straighter, how he drew in his arms and looked to the patio doors. He picked up his mug, “Then how did you get in the position that you were able to bite one of their hands hard enough to have blood in your teeth.”

“I tried to escape,” Five said. “They were going to find me eventually, so I didn’t give them the chance to get the advantage. I’m fast and I have sharp teeth, so I took the first opportunity that I had to get out of the room. It just – didn’t go to plan.”

Five’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed to a glare into the middle distance. He frowned, mumbling to himself, “There were too many variables. My calculations were – off.”

“How’d you get this,” Diego asked, pulling a loose string on the jagged tear down the sleeve of his uniform, the same bloody uniform as earlier.

Five jerked his arm away, covering the tear with his other hand, “A miscalculation between my window and the fire escape.”

He shook his head, rolling his eyes to the ceiling in irritation before taking a bite of his sandwich. It was almost vicious and he sounded exasperated, “Delores kept saying that the calculations were off. I just wouldn’t listen.”

“Delores?”

“Bet she’s laughing now,” He shook his head again, almost fond before slipping back into his cold professionalism. “Regardless, I escaped, and I found a payphone, called you.”

“I haven’t heard anything about a missing kid.”

He didn’t have his radio anymore and the car that he took didn’t have a radio in it. He didn’t have a way of knowing but Eudora would have called if she heard that the kid went missing, right?

Someone would have called.

“No, I don’t imagine that you would,” Five said dully, a sardonic smile aging his face by the decades. “No one searches for the stuff that they didn’t mind losing.”

“The orphanage wouldn’t-“

“I don’t care what they would or would not do, Detective,” He snapped suddenly and defensively and then breathed out, wrapping his hands tight around the mug. “I’ve told you everything that I know so I’ll be going now.”

“What?” Where would you go?”

“I’m resourceful. I will figure it out.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere,” Diego told him, reaching out for his shoulder even though neither of them had yet to move their feet. “There are people with guns trying to tie up loose ends. You asked for a play that was secure, this is the safest place for you to be right now because no one is going to think to look for either of us here.”

“Astute, Detective,” He said plainly. “Isn’t that your last name on the plaque outside?”

“It’s raining.”

Five rolled his eyes and then rolled his shoulders, and the thunder clattered outside. His shoulders slumped like here was as good as any. He looked like he wasn’t in the mood to ague which was crazy because the kid had been ready to throw down since Diego met him, “Did you think that you were in danger?”

“Immensely.”

“Is that why you have a bag packed?”

“I always have a bag packed,” He scoffed. “Don’t be stupid, how could I possibly anticipate that they would come after me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I imagine that is the case most of the time, Detective.”

 He opened his mouth to spit back a snappy response he couldn’t think of but shielded himself the harsh light that overtook the room. His hand reached for a knife on his holster that wasn’t there anymore, and the kid jerked so violently in surprise that his coffee spilt over the rim of his cup.

Diego blinked until the world came into a kind of focus and then rolled his eyes at what he saw, “Go to bed.”

“Now, now,” Klaus said softly, letting his hand drop from the light switch as he entered the room. He was soaking wet like he’d been outside, makeup streaking down his cheeks and his hair dripping. He only had bloodshot eyes for one thing.

“Whoa,” Klaus continued in his soft voice, pressing his palm to Five’s cheek first before dropping it to his upturned collar and pulling. Five jerked back from the touch with a cat-like hiss, batting at his hand. Klaus turned towards Diego with a grin, “I see dead people.”

“Seriously?”

“I mean, obviously not the Asian thing,” He waved his hand, the softness in his voice gave way to what Diego always found annoying about him – his inability to take a moment for what it was, serious. “Like a little snapshot of little Benny the first time he came here, right? Who is this little thing?”

“I’m not little,” Five protested, his hand clenching and unclenching audibly around the mug. He shot Diego an accusing look, “Safe my ass, who is this – this _vagrant_.”

Klaus laughed, pressing a hand to his disco pink and orange shirt melted on his skin like cotton candy,” Who am I? I was wondering the very thing about you, little one. Diego, is this your son? A lovechild between you and some whore that-“

“Get out of here.”

“No, no, not right now. I have a very important question, dearie,” He asked, turning to Five with enough seriousness in his face that Five straightened up. He looked deep into the boy’s eyes, “Do you think that Banana peals are as slippery as advertised.”

“…Who is this idiot?”

Diego sighed a warning, “Klaus, go to sleep.”

Five’s eyes went wide, flickering between Diego and Klaus before he muttered like he was slotting notecards in order, “Séance.”

“Oh, you brought a fan over?” Klaus grinned, turning to Diego. “How cute. Sorry, kiddo, the old man is dead, so you can’t pick his brain.”

“Reginald Hargreeves has no imagination,” Five stated like it was fact that disgusted him. “You can see it in the names – The Horror, Rumor, _Kraken._ There isn’t anything worth picking from his brain. And anyways, any man that wears a monocle is trying to hard.”

“….I like your son, Diego.”

Five sneered, “Don’t.”

“You know, I was wondering where you had gone so suddenly in the night,” He told Diego, pulling his hands on either side of Five’s head to cover his ears as he whispered in a loud stage whisper, “I feared a booty call with the lady cop.”

He slipped away before Five could hit him, continuing in a sing-son voice, “I thought that you might have – you know, NC-17 stuff with your girl, but the kid is a surprise, the uniform is not. Particularly missing Ben today?”

“Are you high?”

“Obviously, just assume that I am always high,” He rolled his eyes and then eyed Five again before sticking out his hand. “Klaus.”

Five didn’t shake it, “Nice dress.”

“Danke, darling,” He hummed, looking between the two of them. “Are you sure that he’s not your kid?”

“I’m not a kid.”

“He’s part of an ongoing investigation.”

“Oh, aren’t you special, little one,” Klaus wooed, looking at his hands before squeezing Diego’s shoulders. He was shrugged off, “You see, D here _only_ cares ab out his investigations. Not his brother, or his sisters, or the girl of his-“

“Klaus.”

“Not even you,” He added, jumping from Diego to Five in a heartbeat. He yanked the kid suddenly back with a hand around his chest and one in his hair, getting a startled yelp from the kid as the stool he was on clattered to the ground.

Diego moved forward, knife pulled, but he froze as Klaus deposited the kid on the floor and he swayed violently on his feet, hands shaking. Klaus’ hand said GOODBYE and was tacky with blood. He dipped those fingers down, streaking them through the clotting blood wetting the side of his uniform and dragging it down his face in a kind of clowns smile, “Did you let one of those blades ‘slip’ again, D?”

Five stomped hard on Klaus’ bare foot until he was forced to step back, hand firmly on his side as he snapped, “Get off me!”

“Jesus, Diego, your son is a violent just like his dad,” Klaus clicked his tongue, amused above all else while Diego felt like someone had pulled the rug from under his feet and the kid limped further away.

He had noticed the limp, the kid said it was nothing.

He hadn’t noticed the blood because the kid wanted the lights off, because blood on navy looked like wet navy. He didn’t notice because the kid hadn’t told him when he asked if he was hurt. He had said that it was nothing that he hadn’t experienced before.

“Kiddo,” Klaus let an irritating amount of sympathy ooze into his voice, grabbing the kid and hauling him back to him, “Did you know that Diego loves his knives? Probably, a fan such as you, did you know that fucking around with one of those is how he got the scar on his head? He’s a violent _ass_ like that.”

Five shoved Klaus off him, looking depraved and feral with his messed up hair and bloody smile. His lips pulled back into a growl, hissing at him as he slapped away his hands, “This is ridiculous.”

Diego pulled on Klaus to get to Five, but he was already halfway to the door. He nearly got into the hallway to leave but had to stop short in the doorway because the noise of the stool falling had woken up Allison and Vanya.

“Oh my god, what happened?” Allison asked, eying the kid and then the knife. She focused on the important part first, “You’re bleeding, honey.”

“It’s a flesh wound,” Five grunted, pulling away when she reached for him. “Get out of my way.”

It’s a complicated couple of minutes and Diego watches it play out with little recollection. When he blinked, Five was sitting on the kitchen table and his knife was sitting on the counter. Five’s jacket was shed and folded neatly over a chair, his stained red vest gone and his collared shirt was pushed up high as Allison looked at the wound, “Was this from a gun?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You said that no one hurt you,” Diego swore, pushing past his siblings. “You said that only you hurt them.”

“I _did_ hurt them,” He snapped, pulling away from his touch and pulling down his shirt. His cheeks flushed red with embarrassment first and then indignantly, “Don’t touch me!”

He dropped off the table, landing heavy on his feet and hissed at the pain. He pushed passed Diego and Klaus, only to growl angrily when the doorway was blocked by Luther, “How many clowns are in this stupid house?”

He cursed them all, spitting words like an angry violent cat when the Hargreeves siblings worked together for the first time in decades to examine the kid’s wounds. Five slapped Allison’s hand when she tried to examine the wound on his side and then kicked Luther because he was close enough, “Don’t touch me. I’m _fine_.”

“You forfeit the right when you didn’t tell me about this,” Diego snapped back, grabbing his arm. He demanded over Allison’s gentle reassurance, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You’re the detective.”

“You’re a little shit,” He hissed, making Five do the same when he swiped a disinfectant wipe over his wound. “This is important, you _lead_ with this and you don’t lie when I ask if you’re okay.”

“I am _okay_ ,” He insisted. “I know how to take care of myself and how were you going to help anyways? Take me to the hospital? That’s a waste of time and you’re a moron. You can’t do anything. I called to give you evidence, not be taken care of.”

“Well, you’re getting both.”

“I don’t _need_ both.”

“That looks pretty bad,” Klaus pointed out. “That’s bleeding a lot. Still. You were shot! I feel like we’re glossing over that.”

“It’s a graze. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Vanya insisted, “You need a hospital.”

“I’m not going to a hospital when people are actively trying to find me and kill me.”

All eyes turned to Diego in worry and concern, and ‘what the actual fucking hell is all this.’  He kept his eyes trained on Five when he told them, “He’s part of an investigation. The shooting at Griddy’s.”

“We were taught first aid as kids,” Luther pointed out. “I still know it.”

Five kicked out at him, jerking his arm away but unable to get it out of Diego’s grip, “You’re not touching me with your stupid ape hand.”

Allison soothed her hand down his shoulder, asking Diego, “You can do stitches, right?”

“Right,” He said, turning and seeing the needle that Luther got and promptly passed out.

Five clicked his tongue, “Typical.”

When Diego blinked awake it was with a jarring realization that he was on the floor and it was _sticky_. The whole world tipped to the side when he sat up suddenly, settling back into place with a rocky tilt.

Klaus’ voice rang too close to his ear, “Look who returned to the land of the living.”

“Where’s-“

“Five?”

“Yeah.”

“Look around,” Klaus told him, fingers dancing down the numbness of Diego’s right arm before pulling him up to his feet. Diego blinked once he was vertical, finding the kid’s head sandwiched under his arm at the table.

“Huh,” He managed to say. “How’d you manage that?”

“He tired himself out trying to punch Luther in the balls,” Klaus grinned. “I _love_ this kid, D. Everybody is trying to find a band-aid for that scratch on his neck, we used all yours.”

“What scratch?”

“The kid is a quick little bastard and he’s _mean_ ,” He shrugged. “Like, damn. Reopened that cut. Oh look, we’re all returning now.”

Vanya came into the room first with a comically wide band-aid, followed by Allison, by Luther, by – Diego shut down the disappointment that he felt that Ben didn’t follow and forced himself to laugh when Luther declared, “He bit me.”

“What is he doing here?” Vanya asked, carefully angling up Five’s head and applying the band-aid. “What was he talking about earlier, someone is trying to kill him?”

“That call I got earlier about the shootout at Griddy’s-“

“He was a witness,” Allison’s hand came to her chest, choking out a horrible, “Oh god. He’s just a kid.”

Five looked disgruntled even in his sleep when she touched his hair. Luther watched her, asking Diego, “What are you going to do with him?”

“He can figure that out in the morning,” She said, pulling her hand from Five’s hair when he shifted in his sleep. “He needs a bath and rest. He can stay here tonight.”

“Well, he can’t sleep on the couch,” Vanya pointed out. “Klaus spilt red wine all over it.”

“On purpose.”

“Put him in Dad’s room,” Luther suggested.”

“Gross, where he _died_?” Klaus exclaimed. “Hasn’t the poor thing been through the ringer already without having to be subjected to the pits of hell beyond Dad’s door? No.”

“Put him in Ben’s room,” Diego suggested. Klaus protested immediately and they put it to a vote that not even Diego voted for. There were things that you didn’t touch, Ben was one of those things. Even Reginald understood that. “Well, the guest room’s are covered in a decades worth of dust. They haven’t been used in – ever.”

“Not to mention that they’re _allllll_ the way over there,” Klaus pointed out. “You know this little demon is going to try to escape as soon as he wakes up.”

“What about Vanya’s room?”

“I’m _right_ here.”

Diego blinked at her, asking in no words at all what her point was before telling them all, “Vanya’s room is right next to mine and there’s no way in hell that I’m leaving the kid in Klaus’ room. He’s my responsibility, he’s staying close to me so he can take Klaus’ room and Vanya can take Luther’s.”

“Luther can have Dad’s room,” He concluded, telling Luther, “You can use that time to come up with more conspiracies about how I murdered our father.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everybody for reading, commenting, leaving kudos and suscribing. It means so much.


	5. Respect for the Sleepers

Diego woke up all at once.

He did not fade from dreamless nothingness, from nightmare _somethingness_. He did not fall into a good morning, did not come to life with the soft caress of morning sun against his cheek or to the familiar smell of Eudora’s burnt attempts at breakfast.

He did not blink awake. He did not embrace the new day in slow ebbs and flows of awareness. He did not drift from sleepy seas to well-worn sheets and cross-stitched pillows, no.

He was _jarred_.

He was _yanked_ from that nothingness, that something, from the nightmare silvers of distant dreams that were knife sharp and cut at his abrupt exit. He was pulled violently from soft corners into hard corners, and tossed into an abyss that was _Hargreeves Manor._

He was jolted and jarred, and there was nothing soft or gentle about it. He came to consciousness the way the ground met a fall, and it _hurt_.

The manor was a monster with sharp teeth and needlepoint eyes, and monsters never slept. Monsters demanded the attendance of its captives at seven AM breakfast seven days a week, demanded no talking, demanded strict obedience.

Monsters demanded too much and got what they wanted.

It was an engrained part of their childhood. It was something that burrowed deep into the subconscious and made home in their psyches, spreading roots that could not be unburied – breakfast at seven, be by your chair with hands crossed behind your back. Don’t be late.

It was engrained like first aid and bruised ribs, and Griddy’s neon salvation. It was engrained like the first-hand knowledge that bones still ached after the fractures had healed and that tardiness meant hunger, and anger, and oversleeping meant starvation.

It turned them into light sleepers, into insomniacs but it should have been different. It _was_ different beyond monstrous walls and he had thought that through the soreness of the morning and the tightness of last night that he wouldn’t have to play by Reginald’s rules anymore. He _didn’t_.

This was something – in the pounding of his heart and the sweat that beaded at his temple. This was more than the lingering touches of engrained rules and a dumb traumatic childhood, this was a violent pull from sleep. This was something that triggered sensors, that said danger.

He had spent his childhood dreaming in the silver glint of a knife’s pointed edge, sharp and unwieldy in its ability to draw blood from clenched fists in the living world. He spent a lifetime dreaming of a combat and apocalypse that would never come, of a damned future that he had believed in. He spent a decade trying to reprogram the words he still heard, _Diego, the Kraken. Diego, the second best. Diego, good with knives and bad with self-control. Diego, be more like Spaceboy._

He had dreamed in black ink and glossy paper, in the harsh drawn lines of a monocle and a frown and a life that had been _written_ for him. He dreamed of fighting those apocalyptic battles, of outsmarting and outmatching his siblings in training. He dreamed of missing alarm bells and missing meals and being too weak to survive Doomsday.

He woke up suddenly, but this was different.

This was danger.

This was a _snap_.

It was the space between a breath that had crumbled into dust and suffocated his lungs with its bright red _danger_. It was startling and quick, a kind of violence that grinded his teeth against one another. It was the leather sole of a boot that collided with his face at speed. An assault.

His muscles jerked forward and backwards all at once, settling back unevenly as they twitched and strained with a readiness that his mind couldn’t comprehend beyond _react_. His ribs protested, and his jaw hurt, and his fingers ached longingly for a weapon that was not readily there.

He could almost hear the way that Eudora had said, _weapons stay out of the bedroom. I’m not budging on that, D._

He could almost hear his father’s sharp disapproval, _be fast, Kraken. Adapt to the situation, acclimate to your climate. The slow die quick deaths in the battle for survival and who will you protect when you’re dead?_

His mind catalogued fact and discarded the rest.

Fact: It was morning.

Fact: He was in the manor.

Fact: He was not alone.

He could feel another presence in the room and he knew that it wasn’t Klaus, or Allison, or Luther, or _Ben_. It was not anybody labeled familiar, labeled safe.

He could feel the presence large and booming in the way that it shifted the dust in the air. He could feel the presence in the taste of earth and copper that it brought with it, and in the act and horrible way that Diego knew exactly what stale blood smelt like.

Fact: He was not alone.

Fact: He was not unarmed.

His mind said _danger._ It said _survive,_ said _threat, attack, strike._ His mind said _now_.

He freighted sleep as his hand groped the side of the bed, curling around steel that was rusted and old, and forgotten where it was wedged in the folds of the mattress. He jerked the blade free in a fluid motion and threw it in a single breath and a flick of the wrist.

The blade pierced the wood of the dresser with a thud and Diego moved into action, blinded by the morning light. He sat up swift and quick, hearing the startled intake of breath that was released back as an annoyed huff.

He barely got to his feet when another boot came for his head. It could have been Allison’s or it could have been Klaus’ but it wasn’t Diego’s and it was thrown with purpose and aim. It scraped against Diego’s chin and clipped his teeth in its collision course with his nose. He stumbled back and swore.

Blinking away the heat of unshed tears that it had brought to his eyes, he landed heavy back down on the sheets. He blinked and then he froze, eyes adjusting to the knife that he’d thrown blind, stuck into wood just to the left of green eyes, and messy hair, and a black OutKast t-shirt that was two sizes too big.

He breathed out, “Kid.”

If surprise had come across Five’s face, it had long since melted into a glare that heated his cheeks. His hands were clenched at his side and his jaw tight. He didn’t move from where he was standing barefoot by the closet, millimeters from where the knife had embedded into the dresser next to it.

He didn’t say a word and Diego had tried, but all of his came out jumbled and stuttered. He almost knifed the kid _again_.

He forced himself to breathe and to picture the words that were important. He forced them to come out right, “I a-al-most hit you.”

“And you missed, again.”

Five’s words were stiff but bored, held up with the meaningless sense that he should say _something_. His head turning ever so slightly towards the knife and then back to Diego. There wasn’t shock in his gaze, just anger.

When he took a breath, it was a movement and another shoe was swept up from the floor and lobbed at him. It was blocked, and Diego swore, “I swear to God, kid. What the fuck?”

“Where is my stuff, you imbecile.”

Diego leaned back, “Ah.”

“Don’t ‘ah.’ Talk,” Five demanded, hands clinched at the side. He was ninety pounds of righteous fury, the human personification of a kitten batting at your pants leg with the rainbow band-aid on his cheek and Diego’s old t-shirt hanging off his shoulder. It was adorable. “Where is my bag?”

“Good goddamn morning to you, too, kiddo,” He said, tossing both boots onto the floor with a thud before checking to make sure that his nose wasn’t bleeding. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“I don’t care.”

The kid had nothing left in his hands and Diego was at least, amused once the panic slipped away so he vocalized his facts in order of importance.

Fact One: “You look adorable, kid.”

“I’m _not_ a kid,” Five’s snapped, jaw clenching even tighter and his hands curling into fists. “I will murder you in your sleep.”

“Don’t threaten a cop,” He told him.

“It’s a promise if I don’t get my bag back.”

“See, this shit is adorable,” He said with a yawn. He brought up Fact Two: “Don’t sneak up on me. I almost knifed you, again.”

“And have failed, twice,” Five shot back. “You stole the clothes off my back-“

“They were covered in blood.”

“-the very _least_ you can do is give me my stuff back.”

Fact Three: “I didn’t steal anything.”

Diego picked up his alarm clock and then sat it back down. He yawned again for the show of it and then sunk back into his sheets until he was horizontal. Fact Four: “It’s too goddamn early for this conversation, kid. Go back to sleep and we’ll have his discussion when the birds wake up.”

“It’s five o’clock.”

“In the morning,” He replied, already closing his eyes. Eudora was crazier than he was if she thought that she actually wanted kids and this kid was crazy if he thought that-

Diego’s eyes snapped open for the second time in so many minutes, going cross-eyed at the rusted knife embedded into the wood of his backboard with a solid _thunk_. He looked at the kid instead.

Five didn’t look anything other than determined and Diego felt himself pass from incredulous surprise to pissed off in two seconds flat, “What the hell, kid. You’re not trained, you could hurt somebody.”

“I want my bag,” He said, each word squeezed through his teeth so clenched that they were shaking. Everything about the kid was shaking with unbottled anger, his hand curled in so tight that his knuckles were same white of his bandages.

He took in a harsh breath, turning his back on Diego so sharp that it felt like he was cutting out a space in time. He threw open the closet door, pulling old forgotten t-shirts off hangers in a mad search, “Where did you hide it. I need – I _want_ it back.”

“Hey,” Diego called, and then louder, “Hey! Kid, get out of my stuff!”

“You have no room to talk!” He shouted back. The maturity and sharp edged professionalism that had coated the kid’s words at Griddy’s and Grimbels was slipping into the rough and uncontrollable emotions of a kid and his lip wobbled before it sneered, “I trusted you and you _stole_ everything I own! You’re – you’re making jokes about it, you – you-“

He growled in frustration, ripping more t-shirts from hangers. It was tangible in the atmosphere, like a blackhole swallowing itself, the way that Five forced himself into a blank clam. He breathed out, “You can’t confiscate my stuff, you have no right.”

“I didn’t confiscate anything, and I didn’t steal your stuff. It’s safe,” Diego told him slowly, carefully. He sat on the edge of the bed, offering Five the place next to him but the kid didn’t move. “It’s an assurance thing. I needed to make sure that you weren’t going to run off as soon as you woke up.”

It was a calculated risk that the bag was important.

It had been right.

“It’s somewhere safe and nothing is going to happen to it or it’s contents,” Diego said. Five’s eyes narrowed back into a glare and he bit down hard on nothing, Diego continued, “You look exhausted, kid, and yesterday was hell. I’m tired, so are you and there is nothing that either of us can do until Patch starts her shift so rest.”

“No.”

“I thought teenagers were supposed to sleep in.”

“I’m not a kid,” He said, stomping his foot very much like a kid. “I want my stuff.”

“ _Teenager_ , I said teenager and I told you to take a breath,” He stated. “Now calm down and relax. I put the spare uniform that you had on top in the bathroom, the one just down the hall. Your clothes from last night were ruined, you can’t wash out that much blood.”

“I want it back.”

“They were covered in blood.”

“My _bag_ , you moron,” He rolled his eyes. “I need it.”

Five sucked in a breath that was short and stiff, and he looked away because no one wanted to admit to someone that they didn’t trust that something was important.

“Let’s make a deal,” Diego said, holding out his hand. “Go get some rest and I’ll keep your stuff safe where it is hidden. You stay, and you’ll get it all back tonight.”

Five’s jaw clenched, “No.”

“Then leave without it,” He challenged. “You’re not getting it back right now.”

 

There was bacon on the stove.

Vanya’s eyes adjusted to the low lighting in the kitchen and the occupant at the table, drifting between him and the reusable bags on the counter that said things like _smiles make the world go round_ and _shop local._ She eyed the bacon at the stove and then the plate on the table, and the kid that was ignoring the plate in favor of picking marshmallows out of a box of dry cereal.

There was a frown fixed onto his face and didn’t change when she asked, “Did you cook this?”

“No.”

His eyes were tracking hers, narrowing into slits when she filled the awkward silence that he didn’t, “I thought teenagers slept in.”

“Everybody needs to adjust their preconceived notions of what teenagers do.”

“Sorry.”

He paused at that and considered her apology, accepting it for the meaningless placeholder that it was. He said, “You’re Vanya Hargreeves.”

“Yes,” She said after a pause, body jerking into action like it didn’t quite know how to react to being addressed. She sat her violin case on the table and held out her hand to him, “We were never introduced, Vanya.”

His mouth wavered into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t the frown that he had reserved for the Lucky Charm marshmallows. His eyes lit up as he shook her hand firmly, “Number Five.”

“Interesting name.”

“Interesting case.”

He hands were calloused and big in her own, slipping from her grip. His green eyes searched for something in her face before both his hand and his eyes dropped to the case, his touch ghosting over the gold lettering carved into the cherry wood, _RH._

“This was his,” His voice was matter of fact.

“Dad’s, yeah,” She nodded, watching the careful way that he unlatched the case and opened it. It was as if he was waiting for her, giving her a chance to say no but she couldn’t get her mouth to work as she watched him lift the violin from its case.

His fingers danced down the neck as she pulled it out of his grasp. He let it go easily, putting his hands into the pocket of his uniform’s shorts and squeezing his arms into his side before relaxing. It was casual, as if to put her at ease.

“It’s beautiful.”

“He gave it to me when I was, probably about your age,” She said softly. “I was – I didn’t train with the others. I learned the violin instead.”

“I know, I’ve read your book,” He said, reaching out and tracing his calloused fingers down the bow before it was taken too and placed back in the case with the violin. “It was pretty good, all things considered.”

He gave her that same not-quite smile, “Pretty ballsy, giving up the family secrets like that. I’m sure it went over well.”

“They hate me.”

To admit it was for it to be true, cutting out of her chest with a pain buried under numbness. She rubbed at the soreness over her breastbone. Five didn’t deny it, “There are worse things that can happen.”

“Like the apocalypse?”

His lips tilted up again and he seemed older than before, older than her, “I suppose.”

His fingers danced around a bone-dry mug, squeezing it before he pushed his plate across the table to her. He was favoriting his right side noticeable and the white of his dress shirt was spotted fresh red at the elbow.

She frowned, her voice going ever soft as he lobbed like a pillow with no force, “Like what happened to you?”

He could have ignored her, but he followed her gaze anyways to the stained fabric and swore, “It’s nothing.”

“What-“

“I said it’s nothing,” He snapped.

She shrunk back from the harsh tone, “I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t special,” He said after putting on his blazer, voice softening halfway through the words into something that was explanatory. “He thought so anyways, that was why you played the violin. Reginald Hargreeves didn’t deem you worthy of a comic book counterpart, so he didn’t pick you to survive his made up apocalypse.”

He considered his words, tilting his head at her, “I suppose there isn’t many things that are worse than your family destining you to die.”

He said it knowing. He said it like it held familiarity. She wanted to ask what he meant but said instead, “Yeah.”

“And despite that, you are very much alive,” He said with a kind of smile that was less a smile and more the pressed upward tilt of a mouth that had little to be smiling about. “That is very much preferable.”

“Thank – you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The silence that fell before them was something comforting, a companionship that Vanya rarely felt. Five went back to his empty mug and she set out to make tea, and the silence stayed comforting until it shattered.

They both stiffened their shoulders at Klaus’ stumbled steps and loud open-mouthed yawn, stretching as he came into the room and dug into the cabinets. He made his own tea, passing ‘good mornings’ with his sister before focusing his attention on Five.

He tried to pinch his cheek but was blocked, “Awe, how is our little trooper doing this _fine_ morning?”

He got a glare and Klaus asked, “Do you want anything? Waffles?”

Klaus’ voice carried through the door on a more sober note when Diego stopped in the hallway before the kitchen. He hovered just out of sight, seeing the hard line of Five’s shoulders go impossibly stiff. His voice sounded tired and terse all at once, like being grounded through sharp teeth, “No.”

“Okay, man,” Klaus hummed, robe open and chest bare, sipping from one of Dad’s antique tea cups. He raised an eyebrow to Vanya and then back to the kid, “It’s just that you’ve been staring – nay, _glaring_ into space like you’re planning a murder and I’m one of the only people here so…”

Five’s head tilted dangerously, dipping low as he turned to Klaus. Diego imagined the sharp corners of his mouth were tilted into a smirk, “There is something that I would like.”

“I can work with that,” Klaus nodded. “Shoot, little man.”

“Some quiet.”

He snorted, “In this house?”

“And coffee,” He added, like a pencil snapping.

Klaus’ bottom lip dipped into a pout as Vanya started explaining that their father didn’t drink coffee but her voice faded out without notice. Klaus’ face shifted from pouting to a dramatic wince, hand on his chest and mock of tears coated his eyes before he grinned and jutted his hand out over Five’s head, “Sorry, you must be this tall to drink coffee.”

“Fuck off.”

Diego made his presence known before someone got hurt, “Hey, watch your language.”

Five threw his hand back with a frustrated, “Oh. My. God.”

“Wow,” Klaus noted around his teacup. “There is a teenager in there after all. Good call, D.”

Five’s jaw clenched, “Coffee, now.”

“You know,” Klaus drew out the word, unfazed by the sharp cut of Five’s glare. “Some say that coffee is as addictive as cocaine.”

Five snorted, “You would know.”

“Oh no, I’ve never had coffee.”

Five was hunched over at the table, hands curling around the empty mug and his jaw clenched in thought. Diego had sympathy for the kid’s dentist, “If you keep frowning like that than your face will get stuck.”

“Good.”

“Are you hungry?” Diego asked, the suggestion about walking down to the diner a block over toppled off his tongue when he saw the plate in front of him. There were pancakes with blueberry eyes and bacon smiles.

Diego’s mouth went cold and his tongue too big, “W-what’s that?”

“Surely, you’re not so stupid that you’ve never seen dishes before.”

He ignored the comment, looking around the room, “Where’s Mom?”

Vanya answered, “In the pantry.”

“M-mom?”

Diego breathed out the word, a stuttered breath that got caught on every corner as he pushed himself through the pantry doors. It was a barbed and poisonous word, because it was wrong. This was wrong.

She shouldn’t be here.

She blinked slowly at him and smiled with all of her teeth, and everything about it felt robotic in the way that it didn’t when she wasn’t here. She shouldn’t be here.

She _left_.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Oh, hello, honey,” She smiled. “Can I make you something?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote this today. I finished it literally ten minutes ago. It's shorter than this chapter was supposed to be but it's been a weird week and I wanted to get something up. 
> 
> Hijinks and family drama ensues in the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, I don't know why you'd care, but I [tumble](https://morganbritton132.tumblr.com/)  
> and occasionally complain about my inability to write.


	6. Consider The Implications.

For a moment.

Everything drawled to the slow intake of breath and the dropped beat of his heart. Everything dwindled to a stop and froze into place, everything crumbled away.

In that moment, in the uniform smile and pink painted fingernails, and in all the comfort that said _grace_ and _mom_ , and _home_ , every slid backwards. The walls shifted and melted but stayed the same because nothing ever really changed in this manor. No one changed.

The pantry shelves were lined with off-brand flour and sugar free cereal, and the many boxes of imported tea that Reginald insisted was in the house. It smelt of cedar and mint, like the past and the present. Grace was there like she was always there, perfect and attentive in her high heels and her updo hair, and that smile that was automatic and empty.

For a moment, the only thing that was, was _her_ and him, and the pantry walls closing in. For a moment, he could feel the almost suffocating texture of a funeral suit stiff on his skin, could feel graveyard dirt grainy on his hands, and he was there again. He was there and he could not leave.

In the space of a heartbeat and a breath, in the crumbling and the frozen, in the _moment…_ he was there. He was standing in the exact same spot that he had been standing on that day a decade ago, repeating the exact same words, “What are you doing in here, Mom?”

And she said the same thing, “Oh, this and that.”

He knew the script by heart despite the time that had passed, despite his numerous scars and her slow reaction. He knew how this moment had went on that day and how they were falling into the same predictable auto-text of familiar roles.

He could see the words clearly in his mind, could feel them building behind his teeth with something _burning_. He knew that he could allow them to drip off his tongue, but he wouldn’t.

Her smile would melt from her face if he uttered those words. Her hand would fluttered to the raised ugly scar hidden beneath her sleeve and she would look down and away as the words registered slowly.

She would try to smile through the tears and she would fail, and Diego’s heart would break. His scars would ache, and he would hate himself as he did then because wounds that were cut open a decade ago still bled when picked at.

He couldn’t say, _Ben is dead, Mom. He’s not coming back._

He couldn’t say, _you’re allowed to grieve, Mom. You’re allowed to cry._

He couldn’t say, _if you need to leave than leave, Mom._

He couldn’t say, _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have been there._

For a moment, there wasn’t anything that Diego could do.

For a moment, he felt as if he was frozen forever in the doorway of this frustrating present and horrible memory. For a moment, all he could hear was the wobble of her voice echoed, telling him that everything reminded her of _him_.

_He can’t be gone. My baby, he can’t – how can he be gone, Diego. I saw him yesterday._

He felt stuck in that past and present intersection that Griddy’s had been, but there was no comfort mixed into the horror. He felt _gutted_. He felt the loss of Ben anew and aching, felt knifed by it. He felt as if he was glitching in the matrix of someone else’s design. Stuck.

All his moments were silted and lagging, struggling to push forward step after step with legs like lead and arms that were just – _there_. There was no purpose to his moments and there was nothing to hold onto in this present, just a need to outrun the past.

When he found new words, they were stuttered and jagged like a knife sliding under his vocal cords and pulling back the layers. Everything choked on his tongue or died unheard on his lips, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

His stutter was worse than it had been in years, but his mind was flashing blank with a blue screened error because this wasn’t right.

He was completely and totally lost to what this moment was even supposed to _be_. This wasn’t a homecoming. There was no family reunion.

There shouldn’t be any greeting because she shouldn’t even be here.

They _agreed_.

Everything was jumbled up with no clear direction or explanation because everything was wrong. None of this should have been happening because Diego had sworn that he would never come back here, and she had said that she couldn’t.

She had said that everything reminded her of Ben, that it hurt to be here, and Reginald had provided the ultimate reason to go.

Diego never wanted children and he didn’t want this witness. He didn’t want to see his siblings, and he never _ever_ wanted to be a witness to his mother inside of this monster again.

She had escaped.

She had saw reason and got out when she could. 

She shouldn’t be _here_. 

He felt so much like the small child that he had been at four years old, grasping at straws and still trying to adjust to adopted siblings in a manor that spanned a city block. He was blinking at her now like he had blinked at her then, overwhelmed and confused by her presence.

He could still hear Reginald’s voice, cold and distant in his mind as he announced that she was his new wife, their new mother. Goodbye to the nannies with strict rules and no smiling faces. Goodbye was her freedom.

He could sometimes hear the one-sided arguments that had happened, could remember the paranoid demands that she was not to leave the house. He could remember the rules to dress like this and smile like that, and always follow directions and he thought the same thing that he had then, _she shouldn’t be here._

He thought, _run away._

He thought, _I love you._

The selfish part of his mind that overran the horror of her presence and the hurt that it brought to his heart, was glad that she was here. He loved her, and he had loved her when the others had hesitated, and he loved her when she left, when he had to beg her to go.

He loved her still even though she shouldn’t be here.

There was a burning behind his eyes, a type of cry that wanted to spill out, but he blinked it away. He took a breath and then another, and cleared his throat even though his voice still came out rough at its edges, “M-mom…”

He trailed off, but her smile didn’t waver. Her hands were resting front of her, bent at the elbows and fingers interlocked, and her heels clicked on the wooden floor when she took a step towards him. And then another.

She touched gently at his elbow, stroking up the back of his arm with a familiar grounding comfort. She urged him encouragingly with a warm voice, “Take a breath.”

“Remember what we worked on,” She said, voice coming out slow but clear. “Take a breath and just picture the words in your mind. You can do it.”

Diego took a breath. He pictured the words in bright red panic, “What are you doing here, m-mom?”

He still stuttered but her smile didn’t falter, growing into something that crinkled her eyes and the indention of a scar on her cheek. Her voice was colored with the same pleased satisfaction that she had when he was four, thirteen, eighteen and still suffering from the same speech impediment.

Every word was a triumph and she was proud each and every time, “Just like that, you did it!”

Her hands pulled back after squeezing his bicep lightly, resting locked at the fingers in front of her the way she always did. She was alert, happy to help. She was Mom the way that Dad wanted her to be, the way that he had drilled into her head to be.

She was not Grace in these walls, not the way that she had grown to be beyond them.

There was absolutely nothing that made this moment different from a hundred other moments of his childhood – new clothes and new scars, age, but it was the same smile and same mannerisms, just a little slower. It was robotic in a sense.

It was never changing because the manor didn’t allow for anybody to change and more and more, they were falling into the old patterns. They were getting stuck.

Diego, the hothead. Luther, the good son. Grace, the robot.

It was the reason that she needed to _go_. It was why she shouldn’t be there.

“Why did you come back, Mom?”

She turned her head back to the scarce pantry shelves, eyeing over the empty boxes of cereal and the forgotten protein powder. Her smile stayed firmly in place, like she forgot that it was there.

She wasn’t like this the last time he saw her.

She was so different and happy, and slow because of the incident but alive. They sat outside at a café in a city that Diego couldn’t remember the name of, the sun beating down on his shoulders and her sunhat threating to blow away. She told him about learning French, about the flowers in Amsterdam and the cathedrals in Italy.

She had held his hand and told him, _I wish you would come with me. All of you._

And he had said to her, _who would you write letters to then, Mom_?

She had a world to see and plans to never come back here. He didn’t want her to come back.

“You were in Ecuador, Mom.”

“Yes, I was,” She smiled, eyes going bright and shiny with an excitement held behind her crossed hands. “It is a wonderful place, so beautiful. Did you get my letters?”

“I did,” He nodded, smiling but it felt sad.

She frowned, rubbing his elbow again, “Diego?”

“I’m happy to see you, Mom,” He said, and he meant it. “I’ve missed you a lot, but – but why did you come back? I thought you weren’t going to the funeral. It was yesterday.”

“I’ve missed you a lot,” He continued, taking her hand in his own. His fingers brushed against the scar on her wrist and he felt sick. “I thought you were going to explore South America this year.”

“My children needed me,” She said simply. “I was called.”

“You – you w-were…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence and not for lack of unclear words. He could see the words in in his mind just fine. He saw them flashing and in bold, screaming _what the fuck_. “Did you talk to Pogo about this?”

“I do not need to talk to Pogo.”

His jaw hung open in disbelief and then clenched in anger. All of this was absurd. It was absolutely fucking – “Who was it that called-“

“I think this will suffice,” She said, tilting her head at the shelf and then grabbing for the back a forgotten old box of teabags. She held the box up to him so that he could see that it was herbal tea that was supposed to taste like coffee.

“That sounds disgusting, Mom.”

“It does,” She agreed, wrinkling her nose. She put the box in a pocket on her apron anyways, asking, “Do you think that the boy will like it?”

“The boy,” He blinked at her before remembering Five and his apparent coffee addiction. He blinked, but she was already walking passed him back into the kitchen. He followed.

It was louder when they reentered the kitchen. Allison and Luther had come down, making up the bulk of the conversation with something about her flight plans. Vanya stayed quiet in her corner as Klaus crowded over Five’s shoulder saying something low and picking the blueberries off his breakfast.

Five pushed him away with a short, “Get away from me.”

“Mom?” Allison asked, a smile pulling at her lips. She looked surprised. Diego noted that Luther didn’t look up from the protein shake he was making and his eyes narrowed at him. “When did you get here?”

“This morning,” Grace smiled.

She hugged each of her children, circling around the room until she got to Five’s hunched shoulders and his ever-present scowl. She bent at the knees to talk to his softly, her words were lost in the noise.

Diego watched her rest her hand on Five’s narrow shoulders, absently stroking the fabric the way that she used to specifically for Ben. He wondered if she saw dark hair and a navy uniform and she saw a ghost too.

She presented him with the box of tea and the wavered polite smile on Five’s face twisted in disappointment before he shrugged off her hand. He turned away from her, resting his forehead against the empty mug in his hands.

She frowned, but it didn’t last long. She blinked her eyes and it slipped away, and she told him, “I will put coffee beans on the shopping list.”

“Are you staying?” Allison asked her.

“Yes, of course.”

“Do not bother, Mrs. Hargreeves,” Five told her promptly, but politely. There was an edge to his voice that sounded sharp and defensive. “I will not be here that long.”

“Oh dear, so soon?” She said, blinking again. Diego moved a step forward to remind her gently that Five wasn’t Ben, he wasn’t staying, but her expression faded into her patent smile.

She batted Klaus’ hand away from devouring the rest of Five’s breakfast, telling him with amusement in her eyes, “All you needed was to ask if you wanted me to make you breakfast, not steal it.”

“I know, Mom, but stealing is so much _fun_ ,” Klaus grinned, throwing his arm over her shoulder and squeezing her into a tight hug again. He snapped his fingers, pointing accusingly at Five’s face, “I see that you’ve already met Mom, little one. Mom, how have you liked Diego’s kid this fine morning.”

Five protested, “I’m not a kid.”

Diego rolled his eyes, “He’s not _my_ kid.”

“Oh, sorry. _Right_ ,” Klaus waved his hand around. “Of course. Of course. Of course, Mom, did you meet the kid that Diego stole from a church? Or did you steal him from the doughnut shop? Oh wait, didn’t you say a department store? There are so many places to steal children from.”

“I didn’t steal anything.”

Five glared at Diego, “You stole my stuff!”

“Don’t start with this shit, kid,” He told him. He heard Grace make a disapproving huff from behind the refrigerator door and felt a little bad about it. “Sorry, Mom.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Klaus waved him off, clapping his hands together before pulling at Five’s collar. He got his hand clawed at and then thrown away but didn’t seem to notice. “Did you notice his cute little uniform, Mom? Small world, huh.”

“Yes,” Grace nodded, her smile faltering. Her eyes got shiny for half a second and her voice flat even when the smile returned. “Saint Agnes Orphanage, with the nuns.”

“He’s part of an investigation,” Diego stated, glaring at Klaus. It got him to back off, knowing when he pressed to hard at an open wound. “He’s just here for the day.”

“Well, he can stay as long as he needs,” She said. “I am still a certified foster parent.”

Five balked at the suggestion, “I don’t need _foster_ parents.”

“What he means is that he really appreciates it, Mom,” Diego cut in. “It’s unnecessary though. He’s not going to be here that long.”

“Well, he is very charming.”

“That’s not the word that I’d use, Mom,” He muttered, looking at Five glaring back at him. He rolled his eyes and grabbed his badge off the table, clipping it to his belt, “Look, I’ll be back in an hour, kid.”

Five’s eyes went wide, not quite in surprise. It was more a jaw dropped look of incredulous concern, “Wait, what? Where are you going?”

“To work,” Diego said. Five looked disgusted by that answer. “Do you want to know what happened last night?”

“I want to know why you think that you’re leaving me here,” He replied sharply. “ _I_ already know hat happened last night because I was _there_. I was the only one there.”

“It’s just for an hour, kid-“

“I’m _not_ a kid,” He snapped. “Stop calling me one.”

“That’s a really compelling argument that you have there but I don’t have the time to hear it,” Diego told him, getting a harsher glare. He let his voice drop into something that said that this was how it was going to be, like it or not. “I’m going to see where the police are at with this and I’m going to explain what happened, then we’ll figure out what our next move is going to be. And you’re going to be safe in this house.”

Klaus cut in with a _woo_ , “He’s going to talk to his lady cop friend.”

“They won’t know more than I know,” Five sighed like he shouldn’t really have to explain this. Diego should _know_. “It happened to me. I was there and I already told you what happened.”

“Well, I need to bring in your evidence, don’t I?”

Five scoffed, kicking his foot out against the underside of the table, “Don’t bother. The chain of command is nonexistent. No moron judge in the tristate would even _think_ to allow it to be used in court. It’s completely useless now.”

“If the person you bit has a record, they’d-“

“They’re not going to have a record! They’re professionals!”

“They can’t be that professional,” Allison pointed out. “They failed to kill you, twice.”

“I’m hard to kill.”

“Like a little cockroach,” Klaus cooed, pinching Five’s cheek. “Adorable.”

Five slapped his hand away again, glaring at him before turning it to Diego once more. He didn’t get a word in edgewise before Diego cut him off, “It doesn’t matter. You’re not going and that’s final.”

“You can’t keep me here.”

“No, I can’t,” He agreed, letting his frustration level out into a calm. Five clenched his fist at his side, but Diego didn’t stop. “You can leave any time you want but you won’t have my protection and you won’t have your bag. That means that what I say is the only thing that matters so you’re not going. Get over it and eat your damn pancakes.”

Five growled in frustration and then pushed the plate away from him defiantly. It skidded across the table and over the side, hitting the floor with a deafening shatter. He stalked out of the room without an apology.

No one said a word as his stomping feet grew distant and then a smiling plate was sat down in front of Klaus, “Let me get a broom.”

“Don’t bother looking for your bag,” Diego called out even though Five was probably too far to hear it. “You won’t find it so get a hobby and sit tight! Take up knitting.”

“Oh,” Klaus perked up, taking his cup of tea and leaving his breakfast untouched. He slipped out of the room, “We can do that together.”

Diego took a breath, picking up someone else’s tea and draining it in one go. He was not unaware of the look that Allison was giving him, hip cocked to the side and her arms crossed. She raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, “What?”

“Do you think that went well?”

He rolled his eyes, “What would you know, Allison?”

“I don’t know,” She shrugged. “It’s not like I’m the only one here that’s a parent, Diego.”

“You’re right,” He said sarcastically, throwing his hands up. “You’re right, yeah. Tell me again how your custody battle is going, Allison? Are they letting you see Claire now?”

Her expression shut down into something hard and Luther’s shoulders stiffened like he was ready to come for her aid, but Diego didn’t care. He was frustrated, and he let that boil over, letting all the hurt and the confusion inside of him turn to something steely and sharp. He jabbed out with it, “Because you lost custody of her, remember? So, yeah. Don’t tell me how to talk to my witness.”

Her voice was sharp, “That’s uncalled for.”

“Yeah,” Diego agreed. “So is everything going on here.”

“Guys, we need to focus on what’s important, not fight between us,” Luther cut in, resting his big hands on the table and leaning forward. The wood protested beneath him. “The last time I spoke to Dad, he sounded strange.”

Allison sighed, and Diego felt it in his _bones_. Here they go again, “Strange how?”

“He was on edge. He told me that I should be careful who I trust. It felt like it had more to do with than just his business.”

“He was a paranoid old man,” Diego exclaimed. “This is the same man that made us _build_ and live in a bomb shelter for a whole summer.”

Vanya’s voice was mumbled but ignored, “Not all of us.”

“Dad’s legacy is complicated,” Luther sighed. “I understand that, but we owe him to figure out-“

“He was a monster,” Diego said. “He was a bad person and a _thief,_ and an even worse father and what he did to Mom, I – The world is better off without-“

“Diego.”

“ _No_ ,” He spat, waving Allison off. This was true and he needed to say it so Luther got it through his thick skull, “We don’t owe him a goddamn thing, he _owes_ us. If someone did kill him than good, they did the whole damn world a favor but he died of heart failure. It’s in the autopsy report.”

“Would anybody like something to eat?”

“No, it’s okay, Mom, “Vanya answered, resting her hand on Grace’s shoulder to stop her from stepping any closer to where Diego and Luther were standing toe to toe, ceramic shards crushing beneath their feet.

Grace just smiled blankly, “Okay.”

“You got big, Luther, and you think that makes you in charge,” Diego said, like an observation and a threat. HE said it in the way that he didn’t say _the bigger they are, the harder they fall_. “But it doesn’t. You’re the same _idiot_ that was too stupid to see that you should leave. He has you brainwashed from beyond the grave and you-“

Luther shoved Diego, knocking him back two or three steps and nearly toppling over. He advanced but Allison put a hand to his chest and he stopped. She asked them but, but directed it towards Diego, “What are you trying to get out of this?”

“I want to know how he got so damn stupid,” He stated. “I want to know what he was fucking thinking in his big ape brain that made him think that he should bring Mom back here? We agreed. We _agreed_ , Luther, and you went behind my back.”

“What are you talking about?” Luther asked, taking a step back. Allison’s hand didn’t fall but she skeptical between the two of them. “I didn’t invite Mom here. We have more important things to worry about. No one can find Dad’s monocle.”

The room took a collective breath and practically groaned. Diego felt exhausted and pissed off by this conversation _again_ , “What’s you point?”

“I searched his room last night for it. I’ve been looking everywhere. I called everybody and no one has seen it.”  

“So?”

“Can you think of a single time that Dad didn’t have it?” He asked. “He wore that thing everywhere.”

“Who gives a shit about a stupid monocle?”

“You’re right,” Luther agreed, almost violently. He nodded his head like the would all come to the same conclusion that he apparently had, but they didn’t so he added, “It’s completely worthless. Whoever took it do so for personal reasons.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Luther,” Diego shrugged. “I didn’t kill the old man and I didn’t steal his shit.”

“No, you wouldn’t steal from him. You hated him.”

“Exactly.”

Luther’s voice had been leading the way that it had been leading to the conclusion that Diego murdered their father. It was leading, and Diego honestly didn’t see where it was going until it got there, “You brought a superfan into the house.”

“He’s – what?” He asked incredulous. “He’s not a fan. He _studies_ those comics.”

“Fans have done crazy things, it’s-“

“Luther, that’s crazy,” Allison cut in. “Are you accusing Five of killing Dad?”

“It’s suspicious that the only survivor of a massacre that Diego was first at scene of-“

“I wasn’t first at the scene-“

“- and then he shows up here with a crazy story straight out of those pages. He knew everything about us and now Dad’s stuff is missing. It’s not crazy to think-“

“ _Yes._ It is crazy,” Allison told him, incredulous and horrified. “Five is thirteen years old and he was the victim of two violent assaults. You saw him last night when we were giving him stitches, he was clearly scared and he – thank _god_ – called Diego because Diego is capable of helping him.”

“Remember how you wanted to be an astronaut,” Diego said slowly, eyes not quite meeting Luther’s because he didn’t quite feel like he was in his body. He had surpassed anger, surpassed surprise and indignity, and frustration.

He didn’t know what he was feeling but he felt dangerous. He felt steel against his wrist, “You failed the psych exam, remember. They said that you were too codependent on your father and you blamed NASA, but it’s true. He’s dead and you’re accusing people of ridiculous shit because you can’t live with the fact that you weren’t here when he died. _You_ failed him like you failed Mom.”

“I was there for Mom,” Luther justified. “I was at her surgeries, I was-“

“You _took_ his side, Luther. You came back here.”

“You _killed_ him!” Luther shouted back. “You said a hundred times over that you’d kill him and he’s dead. And why should any of us think differently? You got Ben killed.”

The air grew stilted with tension.

Luther took in a harsh breath and Diego held his own.

He could feel their father’s voice echoing pain in the palms of his hands, crawling down his veins to something that he had wanted and never got, and had calloused over. His mom, Eudora, protection, love. Ben.

He had wanted to be held tight and squeezed tighter, to be covered and never let go, but Mom had let go because he told her too and Eudora had let go because she had too.

His hands burnt with a phantom touch of cold metal, of fingernails dug into the skin and the want, the need to punch his way out of feeling helpless. It was red hot shame that came with fighting and the shame that came with losing.

Survival meant being changeable.

Survival relied on wanting it enough. He had wanted it.

He had survived all this bullshit.

He’d survived the training, and the knives, and the disappointment. He survived the academy, had stayed strong with Luther hid in Reginald’s shadow and Klaus turned to drugs. He survived when Ben didn’t get the chance too and Allison had run away, and they were accusing him of horrible things because he wasn’t in denial.

He wasn’t in denial about the evil of a man that stood in all black with a top hat and that stupid fucking monocle like some demented cartoon villain at his son’s funeral and said to them, blood on their hands, _“Ben didn’t want to survive, or he would have.”_

Diego was not aware of the fight until Luther got a good hit in, practically sending him to the floor. He wasn’t aware of the punches thrown or the screaming, or the threats until there was blood in his teeth and restraining hands at his chest and throat.

And then he was pushed away, knife falling into his hand and then out of it. It sliced through Luther’s sleeve, embedding in the cabinet behind him and they stopped.

Luther put his hand over the graze, stalking out of the room. Grace had followed behind him, the glass on the floor forgotten.

It’s Vanya’s voice that broke the silence, hovering over his shoulder, “You never know when to stop, do you?”

He bit back, “Got enough material for your sequel yet?”

“I need to get ready for practice,” Vanya said, lacking a comeback. She left the room, leaving just him and his heavy breathing, and Allison.

She rested her hand on his shoulder, “What he said was uncalled for. No one thinks that you got-“

“Save it,” Diego said. He scrubbed at his eyes, wiping his busted knuckle on his jeans and then picked his badge up from where it fell on the floor. “I just need that kid to be somewhere safe while I figure out what to do with him. Once I talk to Eudora, he’ll be gone and so will I.”

“Does she not know that he’s here?”

“No one is going to look for him here. He thinks that he’s being targeted, and I owe it to him to figure out if that’s true.”

She nodded, “He’s just a kid.”

“Maybe, but the threat is real, and I can’t – every time I look at him, I see Ben,” He admitted. “All they’re going to do at the station is let child services ship him off to another orphanage. He deserves to feel safe and if he feels safe around a bunch of fake superheroes than- he came to me.”

Her face was serious as she nodded, “I’ll look after him. I promise.”  


	7. A House That Does Not Need You

The drawl of breath pulled in and it pushed out, _“No.”_

It pulled in and it pushed out, “ _I haven’t left yet.”_

Five paced.

When there was nothing left to do but _think_ , he took steps. He walked with the heel of his sock covered foot against the toe of his other, and he paced.

Six steps in front of him, six steps back.

When the wall pressed against his toes and breathed cedar and mothballs into his lungs, he turned back. And he paced.

He met the opposite wall with his hands balled into fist in the pockets of his shorts and twisted on his heels. He walked softly, ghostly on floors that would have otherwise creaked. There were no nuns here to hear his nonexistent creaking, there was no threat that came with their punishment. There was not a sound.

Five knew what it felt like to be trapped and this wasn’t it.

Five knew what it felt like to have a wall against his back and doors that would not budge, to breathe in dust and chalk and choke on it, and this was not that either. There were walls here but there six paces between them. There was a door and the knob was rusted, but it opened.

He could open it.

There was this small storage closet, but he _chose_ to be in it.

He was not trapped, but his mind repeated a mantra that he had heard when he _was_ trapped, _shit._

His mind repeated it like it was the only word that he possessed, like saying it aloud would place him in stone and fire, and ash, _shit, shit, shit, shit._

In the back of his throat grew a growl that itched and crawled to find salvation in his mouth but found molars instead and was smothered beneath them. He was not trapped, but his hands were sweaty, and his body lurched with pain and anxiety. He picked at his fingernails even though he told himself to stop.

He sighed.

He starved off the anger he had felt in the kitchen, narrowing it down and burying it beneath sound logic and reason, and a hundred different reminders that anger never did anything for him. He stepped on it and pushed into the dust on the wood floors and delayed the building reaction for some other time because he needed to be the adult here.

No one else was going to be.

He needed his bag because it was important. It was the _most_ important.

And he needed to leave.

On the other side of this closet door, beyond the rusted doorknob and all the forgotten coats inside, there was a hallway and a payphone. There was that pull in of breath and the pushed out exhale, and Allison Hargreeves – _Rumor_ – saying, “My father’s funeral is an extenuating circumstance, Patrick, any judge would agree to…”

She was asking, “Is Claire there with you? Is that Claire?”

She was saying, “I would like to say hello to my daughter.”

Beyond the closet and the payphone, and Allison Hargreeves’ family drama, there were forty-two bedrooms and eighteen bathrooms.

There was a state-of-the-art training facility and a gym, and a bomb shelter accessible through the basement and the backyard. There was an attic and a roof, and two kitchens, one that was used and one that was not. There was a dining room and a service hall, and a library that could possibly have a hidden door because the comics did.

There was a living room that was underused and a sitting room with paintings that potentially hid safes behind them. There were storage rooms filled with old furniture and an infirmary somewhere with Mrs. Hargreeves tending to Spaceboy inside.

There were many rooms, but _many_ was a limited number in this case. Limits could be found, and they could be _accounted_ for. Limits were _searchable_ and if they were searchable that meant that his bag was _findable_.

And find, he would.

He was persistent in his nature, the nuns always said so.

He was determined to the _nth_ degree and headstrong like no other, and he was smarter than any of these dysfunctional dimwits. He was going to find his duffle bag because he _needed_ to find it, and he was going to leave because he wanted to. No one could stop him.

He couldn’t leave without the bag, and Diego had known that.

Five cursed beneath his breath and picked up his pace, six steps forward and six steps back. He should have played it smarter and given nothing away, but he had underestimated Diego because Diego was different from his comic book counterpart and Five’s plan had been thrown together in haste by circumstances.

It wasn’t thought out. He hadn’t accounted for deviations, hadn’t made contingencies. It was foolish. He hadn’t seen any of this coming and it annoyed him.

He could practically hear Delores’ smug words telling him that he should have been more careful with people who wore masks both in comics and in real life. He could hear her tell him that he should have known better, planned better, and he muttered under his breath even though she was not there, “Hindsight is 20/20. Thank you, Delores.”   

 _The Kraken was perceptive in the comics,_ he thought to himself but even as he thought it, he crossed it out in his mind. He told himself, “The Kraken was a hothead who sought out justice by any means. He thought that he was above the law.”

Diego Hargreeves _had_ proven himself to be exactly that though, he reasoned. It was a known secret to anybody that wasn’t dim that he was the masked vigilante. He _dressed_ like The Kraken, he carried knives like The Kraken. He _said_ things that The Kraken would say.

He was supposed to be a means to a well-deserved end. He was supposed to care about justice and getting it anyway that he could because that was how The Kraken was. He was supposed to be above the law, to take Five’s evidence and be done with him.

He wasn’t supposed to – to _care_.

 _The motivations and actions of people cannot be predicted with one hundred percent accuracy,_ his mind said in Delores’ voice.

_Comic books are not real life._

Five leaned back against the wall, “I never thought that they were.”

He let his feet slide out in front of him until his feet were pressed against the opposite wall and then he pulled his knees up to his chest. He breathed out softly, his head falling forward as Allison tried to explain, “I know I said that I was going to be on the first plane out this morning, but Diego had this case and there is this little boy that-“

Forty-two bedrooms. Eighteen bathrooms.

A whole city block.

He could do it.

He had no choice.

The wall felt heavy at his back, leaning on him like it’d topple over if he would allow it to and he’d be trapped all over again. The whole world felt like that sometimes, _all the time_. More and more, it felt like Atlas was crumbling into dust and that he was the only one trying to keep the world from shattering on the floor.

Five rubbed his eyes and he stretched his legs out. He pushed back up the walls in his head and steeled his eyes, pushing his hair back into place. _Focus._  

He read the books and he studied all the characters.

He read the _articles_ and watched the interviews on the computers at the library, and he listened to the countless times that people had said that the real-life inspiration of the comic book characters were exactly like them. _Allison_ had said the very same on Jimmy Fallon _twice_.

He should know _something_ about how this all worked, but his calculations were off like his calculations were off about the distance between his window and the fire escape. He breathed in.

There was no one with a gun here, no masked men or waitresses accusing him of being someone’s kid. There was nothing here but the closet and the coats, and Allison making pleads and excuses on the other side of the door. He just needed to _think_.

His fingers twitched in his lap, tacky at the nailbeds with the sting of clawed off skin. He forced himself to breathe and then forced himself to feel beneath his jacket, pressing his fingertips to the burn of swollen flesh at his side and the fuzziness of his well-worn vest.

It felt _damp_.

He breathed out and his fingers came away tackier and red. _Shit._

“Shit,” He muttered, letting his head thump back against the wall. He thumped it again, telling himself, “Come on, focus.”

Diego Hargreeves was a cop, but he was a _bad_ cop that got criticized openly by his partner and yelled at by his captain. He pulled knives on his witnesses and asked the wrong kind of questions.

He was volatile like The Kraken, potentially dangerous and impulsive. He didn’t _think,_ and it _showed_. He responded to everything with sharp objects.

He had pulled a knife on Five at least three times and claimed to be protecting him. He was hasty in his reactions and nitpicky when he knew it’d start a fight, but he wasn’t reacting the way that he was supposed to be.

His eyes got soft when he looked at Five and he spoke to him the way that he spoke to his brothers. He got _mad_ that Five was bleeding last night when it didn’t matter.

He didn’t care about the evidence or the case, just that Five was okay. He wasn’t looking at Five for what he was, _capable,_ but for what he was not, _in need of protection. A kid._

He was supposed to work alone because The Kraken wasn’t a team player. He was supposed to go above the law and beyond it, because the court systems were slow and every foster kid in the world knew it. He was supposed to take the ball and _run_ , because injustice should never be allowed to grow legs.

He wasn’t a protector, so he shouldn’t be trying to protect Five.

He wasn’t clever, so he shouldn’t have gotten the upper hand.

He wasn’t supposed to _steal_ from him, but he did.

Five resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall until one of them broke. He resisted the urge to throw a fit, to make demands that he knew wouldn’t get answered. He resisted the urge to give in to the voice that told him to cut his losses and leave his bag because he knew that he never could.

He let his eyes slip closed. He let the only thing to exist was the lull of Allison’s voice, “I’m not making up stories, Patrick.”

It was almost easy to let her voice lull him into something like comfort, like the orphanage, like listening to Sunday mass even though he said that he was not going. The church was always so _loud_ , he was used to it.

He was used to the kind of begging in Allison’s voice, that begging to be heard and understood, and forgiven, but his eyes opened at the slam of the phone.

It echoed with the satisfaction of killing the voice on the line with a blunt forced slam of the receiver. Allison breathed out harshly, loudly, head thumping lightly against the cool plastic when Five cracked the door open just enough to see.

Her breath stuttered in a way that no one’s did when they were in front of people because it was pathetic and ugly to sound that close to crying. Her shoulders shook, and her spine curled in on itself inside of her shirt, and then stiffened.

He watched everything about her transform from Allison to _Allison Hargreeves,_ Hollywood actress at the creak from the top of the stairs and the deafen steps of well-worn boots. It was a voice that spoke like it had heard everything, that crawled with guilt and flooded the throat until the words had to drip out, “I was the one that called Mom.”

The words landed deafly at the bottom of the stairs like a body rolling, like a stone skipped across a pond and then disappearing. All that was left were the ripples and those ripples spread out and got bigger and grew into hurricanes and tidal waves.

Five held his breath in their presence, standing on the shore where water should have been but wasn’t. He tilted his head down, his eyeline ascending the stairs to those boots and wringing hands, and the guilt that ate violently at Vanya’s face.

Allison’s head turned minutely towards the stairs. Her steps deafening as she took three of them so that she stood at the bottom, looking up.

The silence said _Vanya,_ but the silence was too deafening to hear. The silence was thick and cracking and shattered when her voice was nothing but a quiet demand, “Why.”

“She should be here for all of this,” Vanya missed her gaze. She hesitated a step down the stairs but took it anyways and took another until there was only one between them because there was a need for this conversation to be quiet. The need for it not to be overheard was palpable.

Five almost felt guilty about listening in but it wasn’t like his six steps forward and his six steps back were going to change how much he heard, so he listened. And he watched.

Vanya gestured weakly around them, “We should all be here because – because he was our dad and he’s dead, and he’s not coming back. There’s – It feels like this is going to be the last time that we’re going to see each other.”

“That’s not true.”

“So, Mom should be here for this,” She continued, rushed a little at the end to get the words out. “Your ex-husband sounds like an asshole. It’s – it’s probably better that you didn’t make your flight, that you’re here.”

“No,” Allison said with her cold incredulous. Vanya flinched. “It’s probably better that I’m with my daughter.”

“Oh, of course, I… I’m sorry.”

Vanya shook her head, sinking back but gaining the upper ground in height when she edged back up a step. It didn’t matter because Allison was _Rumor_ and Vanya was a _second-string_ violinist, a forgotten child, not fit to survive the apocalypse.

It didn’t matter how many steps were between them because Vanya was weak, and her backbone was nonexistent. She could not and would not stand up to the righteousness that settled into Allison’s voice, to the solidity of it and the _right_ that carved into every word.

There was no doubt when Allison stated, “Mom is not better off here.”

“Look at her,” She continued. “You know why she left and how Dad reacted to that. You know what happened and – and _look_ at her. She was _robotic_ in there. It’s not our fault that we didn’t understand that the way that he treated her was horrible when we were kids, but you’re not a kid anymore, Vanya. I’m sorry that you we replaying violinist during her surgeries-“

“Playing violinist? I was at school.”

“-but I missed auditions to help with her recovery. I was there when she could barely hold a _spoon_ , when she didn’t know who any of us were. I get that you feel guilty that you weren’t there, but it took a long time for her to get where she is and bringing her back here – honestly, why would you even _think_ that was okay?”

“I thought, I-“

“And no offense, Vanya,” She continued. “If any of us wanted advice, it wouldn’t be from you.” 

Vanya’s head tilted down, and her face flashed hurt in the thin strip of light from the crack in the door, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have a child, Vanya,” She stated. “You don’t know what it’s like to love someone so much that it hurts to be away from them because it _hurts._ It hurts so much that I can’t see Claire. It hurts _every_ second that I’m away from her, I can’t imagine what Mom felt losing Ben… what she still feels.”

Allison took a breath and continued, “Bringing her back here is all the evidence anybody needs to know that you don’t understand what she needs, what anybody needs. You separate yourself from everybody and everything.”

She took another breath, wavering between sympathetic and mean, “You always have.”

“Because Dad made me.”

“Did Dad make you write that book too?” Allison asked. Her voice straightened into the hard edge of a demand as hands came to rest on her hips.

Five couldn’t see her face at this angle but he’d seen one of her movies. He knew the way that her eyes dug into you, exploring your soul and your intentions like a blunt instrument digging into flesh.

“Oh my god,” She pushed a breath from her lips like a tired sigh. She didn’t even sound surprised, just accepting of fact. “Diego was right, wasn’t he? All of this is just for another paragraph in your sequel about how we’re all horrible to you.”

“No, it’s – I’m not writing a sequel,” Vanya swore. She scuffed her shoe on the floor, mumbling under her breath, “The first one didn’t sell enough anyways.”

“And that’s the only reason, isn’t it,” She said flatly. “I was giving you the benefit of the doubt about it yesterday, but you’re an adult now, Vanya. You don’t get to blame your problems on Dad anymore. You don’t get to blame them on anybody but yourself.”

“No, no, you’re right. I know that,” Vanya assured, but it sounded rushed and complacent like an automatic apology that meant nothing. “I’ve been… I don’t know what I’m talking about. Diego was right, I should go.”

“You should.”

Five doesn’t understand what it was that broke the tension between them because one minute, Vanya was flinching away from Allison’s words. Her eyes were vacant and hollow, and then Allison was sighing and reaching out, “Vanya.”

“You’re right,” Vanya said rushed. “I shouldn’t have called Mom. I shouldn’t have written that book. I was just – I have practice anyways and an apartment in town, so I… yeah. Sorry.”

“Vanya,” Allison called, but she was gone, slipping passed her like a shadow and down the hall. She passed the closet that Five was in without notice, and Allison threw her hands up before stomping up the stairs.

Five pushed the door open and breathed in fresh dust.

He told himself, “Start at the top and work down.”

He told himself, “Diego Hargreeves is _not_ smarter than me.”

He told himself, “Find the bag. Follow the plan.”

Then, he heard a noise down the hall. He heard a grunt and then something falling over, and the word, “Shit.”

He followed that instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have a reason why I didn't post last week other than the fact that I just struggled with this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	8. Portrait of Frustration

From the outside, the door was just a door.

It was one of many – one of forty-two bedrooms and eighteen bathrooms, of dozens upon dozens of other useless and underused doors. There was never going to be anything special or impressive about the excess of wealth dwindling down unused into rot and rust, and there was nothing special about this door.

The paneling on the wood doors were boring and plain, just like every other door on this floor, in this wing, in this whole damn city block wide manor. There was nothing ornate or ornamental about the doorframe or the doorknobs. There was nothing that said that this door was important.

There was nothing that said that he should walk through it.

There was absolutely nothing about this particular door that interested him except that it was cracked open were most were jarred shut or warped into their frames. There was nothing but the voice inside of it breathing out like a ghost, “Come on, old man. Just this once, don’t be a dick.”

The dust on the floor and the treads in the carpet spoke to an underused house, to a lack of care and renovation. The stiffness of the worn carpet and the grooves of the well-walked path spoke in colors, in the remnants of actions that were far older than Five was.

 _This part of the manor was well used in times before I was born,_ Five made a note in his head. _It was not used now._

He reminded himself that Diego got the best of him _once_ and that it would never happen again. He was not clever, he was not smarter than Five. He was underestimated, and people were always underestimating Five. It would come full circle.

Five would find his duffle bag because he _would_. He would find it because people like Diego Hargreeves, like repetitive comic book characters, were all predictable in their routines and their habits.

They stalked the same places, the same halls, the shadows on the streets. They said the same things, they _did_ the same things. They reacted the same.

The masked vigilante covered a certain square block radius, rarely venturing further out than that, and The Kraken never left the city it was trying to protect, so he would find his bag because Diego wouldn’t change that much since his childhood and he would hide it in a place that he knew.

Five reminded himself of the library archive of newspaper clippings about Reginald Hargreeves’ _Umbrella Academy_ and how the sales grew when his inspiration was revealed, about how the sales died just like the Umbrella Academy had died – on the breath of abandonment.

He reminded himself that The Kraken, and Rumor, and Séance, and The Horror were just Diego, and Allison, and Klaus, and _Ben_ wearing masks different than they were. They were all memories that had escaped out the door.

He reminded himself that even Spaceboy went to the moon in the comics and Luther left every morning for four years to take business classes at the local college. The Monocle had been alone in the impending days of the final issues and he had died before the start of the apocalypse, and Reginald Hargreeves… he had been alone too.

The carpet was worn down in a single path, faded in its colors and baring threats like nowhere else in the manor. The carpet spoke of a monocle man, of a fictional and a very real kind of man that followed the same routine and the same steps. It spoke of _Reginald Hargreeves_ , who was very much a mystery.

There was nothing special about this door except who used to own it.

There was nothing special except that it hadn’t been closed all the way and the voice inside of it was murmuring, “Where is the cash?”

There was nothing that said that he should walk through this door, but there was nothing stopping him from doing so.

So, he did so.

Five pressed his fingers against the wood on the door.

He felt the coolness of it, felt something like exploration and exhilaration heat up his bones. He felt his inhibition slip away and a childish, _stupid_ desire to run towards what he was most curious about fill his heart.

And he pulled his fingers back.

He squared his jaw and stiffened his shoulders for no one. He stood up taller and straightened his frown into a straight line, aging out youth into maturity for _himself_.

He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, feeling the vest beneath it pull painfully at the tacky remains of blood and the torn stitches, and he buttoned it. He pulled on his sleeves and fixed his collar.

He took a deep breath.

He was _not_ a child. He was not an _idiot._ He was the boy in room five, he was Number Five. He was not scared, not hesitant, not worried.

He swallowed down any lingering thoughts of anxiety and doubt. He let them give way to something much grander, much greater, much more useful than apprehension.

Determination. Anticipation. Scientific curiosity. 

He tested the weight of his foot on the floorboards and breathed out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding when it didn’t make a sound. The floor was settled into the foundation here, not creaking or groaning, not giving him away because it never gave away Reginald.

The door didn’t protest when he nudged it open further, unfolding easily and quietly with the grace of flowers in full bloom. It granted him quiet access to shared secrets, to an empty and cold embrace.

The room was an office.

Five’s mind supplied with a little bit of wonder, _Reginald Hargreeves’ office._

Stories were created here.

A whole universe was created here.

The office was an overstuffed and grand affair of things that were ancient and things that were new, a well-rounded tomb for a man that spent his life between these four walls. There was irony to the emptiness and the fullness of the room, of the fact that Reginald didn’t die here.

It raised the hair on the back of Five’s neck with something like a warning, something that said _turn back_. It flashed bright hazard lights into the corners of his eyes and sunk ice into his heart, _you’re not supposed to be here_.

That cautioned, _turn around, boy._

That whispered, _this world was not meant for you._

That screamed, _run, boy, run._

He stepped further into the room because _nothing_ was meant for him. Because he was not supposed to be anything. He was abandoned, unwanted, left in a church with nuns that thought bad things about him.

He stepped further into the room because it felt like a violation.

It felt dangerous. Interesting.

He ignored the boring drawl of voices in his head that sounded like Delores’ worry and Diego’s hysteric complaints, like the nuns and the man in the cartoon mask. He ignored the common sense etched down into his bones that said, _don’t be spiteful, close the door and walk away._

He ignored, _your duffle bag is not in here._

He ignored, _cut your losses like you’ve cut everything else._

He drowned out those voices with quick meaningless apology, with gritted teeth. He took refuge in a boat built out of the eagerness and recklessness of a boy with nothing to lose, with nothing to hold on to now that his duffle bag was taken. Of a boy, age thirteen.

He looked down at the rug beneath his feet and wiggled his toes on the worn Turkish silk, following up faded red and mustard colored yellow patterns until they hit the floorboards and he followed peeling wallpaper. He committed it to memory as he took in the large taxidermy birds and the old oil paintings of black feathered birds, all layered in dust.

He let the room shrink in around him and draw him in closer and closer with its stacks upon stacks of books and the desk in the middle, the grand fireplace behind it.

He almost expected to see Reginald there, working.

He let his eyes travel across the messy surface of the desk with interest, with intention. There was something eerie about seeing so clearly that he was a man that died in the act of _doing_ something, died unfinished.

Five drank in the sight of the tools on the cherry wood surface, took in the scrapped drawings and the unfinished storybooks. He saw all the plotlines that had been severed and left unfinished on the floor, and he wanted to touch it all, but his hands remained restrained in his pockets.

He felt absurdly like a visitor inside of a fairytale, an outsider wandering into an enchanted castle. He felt cautionary, like something you told children to warn them of the powers of curious minds.

He felt that warning like sandpaper on his ankles, like rose vines wrapping around his legs and trying to pull him to the door. He felt temptation do the opposite, and he stayed where he stood.

He felt like a ghost silently haunting a house that was already haunted. If he touched anything, he would shatter it.

He would shatter this illusion of stillness and glass breath silence, and he realized that was _stupid_.

He rolled his eyes at his own childishness and took his hands from his pockets. He stepped further into the room and picked up a red book with _RH_ engraved on the cover and the spine.

He let his fingers, stained with dried blood and gnawed red at the nailbeds press to those letters until they were smudged and stained, too. He made his presence known.

He cleared his throat, but it went unheard.

He ignored the dark gaze of the painting above the fireplace, the warning that he did not belong here. He ignored the way the dead eyes in the portrait of Reginald Hargreeves followed him, ignored the way that his shoulders wanted to curl in and his feet wanted to run away.

He stepped defiantly forward.

Reginald was dead, and ghost were not real.

Only a child would believe otherwise.

There were murmured muffled noises coming from under the desk, echoing soft curses and scratching mildly at the wood. Five went to it with his chin up and peeked over the side. He called out, “Séance.”

There was a thump on the underside of the desk and Five rolled his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, “What are you doing?”

“Kiddo,” Klaus said so casual that it was anything but, popping up from under the desk. His face stretched into a wide grin as his hands came together in a clasp in front of him.

He batted green eyes at him, “ _Wow,_ look at you, kid. Long time, no see. Did you get taller?”

Five blinked at him. 

He pursed his lips together and stared at him until Klaus dropped his hands from their clasp, letting them fall to the wayside with his act. He ran one hand into his messy hair and then snapped his fingers, “ _Actually_ , you are the tiny handed little man that I wanted to see.”

Five blinked at him, saying politely through his teeth, “Am I?”

“Ye _p_ ,” He said, popping the _P_. “You see, my little _adorable_ friend, you have these itty bitty hands-“

“I do not.”

“And I have these _very_ big beautiful grown up hands,” Klaus continued without showing any sign that he had heard Five speak. He stretched his hands out in front of him as if to demonstrate their size and thus, demonstrating the problem, “You see, there is this itty bitty latch that needs itty bitty hands to undo it so I can get in this drawer. My big hands are creating a problem that you could help me with.”

Five was not impressed, “I am not helping you loot the dead.”

“Oh, don’t say it like _that_. That makes it sound _bad,_ ” Klaus scoffed, flinging his hands out in all directions like he was throwing away the very thought. “Don’t think of it as looting the dead, think of it more as… as relieving the dead of the burden of ownership.”

“That is significantly worse.”

“Hey, little man, _think_ for a second about it. You’re good at thinking, aren’t you? I can tell that you are, smarty pants,” He said. “Reggie’s damned little soul is, bless his cold dead heart, going to have to cross that river in Hell, isn’t he? That’s going to be pretty hard to do when he’s holding all this shit, right?”

Klaus tossed a magnifying glass from the top of the desk into the air, and Five caught it. He rested it against the red book and rolled his eyes, “It’s called the river Styx.”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“You have to pay a fee to take the ferry across the river Styx, you don’t _swim_.”

“I’m sure ol’ Reggie has enough pocket change to make that happen,” Klaus shrugged, trying to yank open the locked drawer by force. It didn’t budge at all. “Anyways, an all-star like him? Hades has probably been waiting decades for the old man to kick the bucket, so he could pass over the fiery throne and the thorny crown to true evil.”

Klaus paused for a second, taking a breath.

He looked so much older for a passing second.

He looked exhausted and tired and haunted by the weight of his father’s passing. He looked relieved and sick because of how relieved he felt that the man was dead. He looked conflicted by the presence of his mother, by the absence of Ben, by the appearance of Five in the same uniform that his dead brother used to wear.

He looked opened-eyed and sympathetic, and like he wanted to claw off his own skin just to be away from all the blood on Five’s hands. He looked sad, but not pitying and Five was struck hard with the self-realization that he was a witness to a massacre, that he was the victim of an attempted murder.

And Klaus saw that.

For a second, Five wanted to scrub off his skin.

For a second, Five wanted to look away.

He wanted to run away.

He wanted his duffle bag.

“What do you think it’s like, Hell,” Klaus asked, blinking back into hungry drug-withdrawn sharpness and jerky over-the-top movements, back into his wide grinned mask of _Klaus,_ of _Séance._

It was false, a mask over a corpse that Five wished he had never seen.

He shrugged his shoulders, “Brimstone and hellfire.”

“Lacks imagination.”

“Fine, I think that hell is this moment right now,” He shot back because Hell was a trap. It was guilt and blood, and rocks. It was the smell of ash and the soft feather light touch of it on his cheek, it was burning.

Hell was being stuck and he _was_ stuck, so Hell was right here.

Diego stole his duffle bag and abandoned him to _this_ , to Hell.

Klaus’ grin looked more real when it stretched to show all his teeth because he didn’t get it. He didn’t _know_ Five, so Five was just some snappy dumb kid that’s been through some shit and _Klaus_ had been some snappy dumb kid that had been through shit, so he thought he understood. He didn’t.

He _couldn’t_.

He slapped a hand over Five’s shoulder and laughed, “You’re fucking hilarious, kid.”

“What are you looking for?” Five asked, voice coming out demanding and harsh even as he swallowed down a feeling that was thick and barbed. He pulled his shoulder away from him, putting distance between them.

He asked a question that he knew the answer to and didn’t care to hear again. He had heard Klaus’ mumbling, he knew what he wanted, “Why do you need cash?”

“Oh, for this and that.”

 _For drugs_ , Five was not stupid. He could see the way that Klaus was itching for something. “Didn’t you _just_ get out of rehab?”

“No, I-“ Five looked pointedly at the band on Klaus’ thing wrist, watching Klaus as he pulled the sleeve down and said dumbly, “Say no to drugs, kiddo, but no.”

“No, no, I said that I was done with all that,” Klaus continued with a shaky wave of his hand. It was insincere but insincerity on the edge of want and need. He _wanted_ to be done, he _needed_ the drugs, Five has seen this type before. “I came down here to prove something to myself.”

“And what was that?”

“That the old man was really dead and gone, and look at that. He _is_ ,” Klaus laughed. It was humorless and hollow. “You know how I know that? Because if he was alive than not one of us would be allowed to step foot in this room, least of all you. Outsider.”

“He was always here,” Klaus continued, more to himself than to Five. “Our whole childhood, plotting his next plot twist, deciding which of his children should be boning in his dumb comic books…finding fun and exciting ways to torture me.”

“Then why come back?” Five asked, holding the red book closer to his chest. He wanted to keep it, he wanted his duffle bag. “Why come back at all?”

“Just getting an advance on my inheritance, that’s all it is. No need to get your pull-ups in a twist, here,” Klaus tossed a decorative diamond egg from the mantle over the fireplace to Five. It fell through his hands and bounced on the floor, rolling. “That’ll get a pretty penny for Reggie’s number one fan.”

“I’m not a fan.”

“ _Aren’t you though_ ,” Klaus said, voice pitching into a high whiny sound. Five glared at him, making him laugh, “Yeah, okay, whatever you say, little number Five.”

He said it dismissively, like Five was a little kid that needed to be agreed with or he’d throw a tantrum. He spoke like Five was a dumb kid that could be swayed from the bigger picture by shiny toys and thinly covered lies, that didn’t need his _things_.

Five bit his lip and then snapped at him, “Why don’t you try being sober for once?”

“Why don’t you try being _fun_ and hey, I don’t know, judge not least you want to be judged, or whatever. You don’t know anything about me. Those comics aren’t factual.”

“I’ve lived in a church most of my life, I’ve seen enough people like you to know _everything_ about you. Life is hard, and your dad was mean to you. So, what? Grow up.”

“Good golly, kid, where were you even _made_?” Klaus scoffed. “Barnes and Noble for dickheads? The Better Business Bureau of bastards? Learn to fucking talk to people.”

Five’s lip twitched up as Klaus yanked uselessly on the drawer. Something in the air shifted. The conflict was had and resolved, slipping through his fingers like when Vanya and Allison were talking on the stairs.

He offered plainly, “The IRS made me.”

“You know, I can see it.”

Five nodded to himself.

He felt the flicker of a smile on the tip of his lips and then dropped it. He was not here to make friends, to find _kinship_ with comic book characters. He was not supposed to be _here_ at all, but he was.

He gathered up his wits and the remains of a half-cocked plan. He took a breath and reorganized everything he had learned about the Hargreeves siblings.

Diego was different from The Kraken and Allison was different from Rumor. Klaus was most different from his comic book counterpart but that could be used to his advantage because Klaus also seemed like the one that would be most willing to help him.

Five sighed.

He shoved his hand in his pocket, fiddling with his last twenty dollar bill. He licked his bottom lip and let his eyes flicker up to the painting over the fireplace. He let the weight of something like disappointment from a man he didn’t know slip from his shoulders.

He thought to ask, _have you seen my bag?_

He thought to ask, _what am I supposed to be doing here?_

He thought to ask, _what broke you and what broke me?_

He licked his lips and cleared his throat, “Have you seen-“

The door was thrust open, groaning across the carpet and bouncing on its hinges, and Five found his words dying abruptly on his lips. He didn’t have a chance to react any more than to hold his breath and embrace for impact.

Nothing came from it other than a loud hostile demand, “What are you doing in here?”

“Awe, Luther,” Klaus said like this was nothing. He said it without worry, without fear, despite the fact that Luther was huge and looming, and stronger than them both. “I was wondering when you’d join us.”

Five never felt stupider than expecting anything from _Spaceboy._

“Shut up, Klaus,” Luther snapped, and Five realized suddenly that he had been the one addressed. He was the one that Luther had stomped across Turkish silk to stand toe to toe with.

Five looked up at him, tilting his head back as far as it could go instead of stepping back. To step back was to be a child, was to give in. To step back was to look weak and be intimidated by _Spaceboy_. He sneered, “What do you want.”

It wasn’t a question.

Luther’s shoulders rolled back in frustration as though he thought that Five would have been intimidated by his size. His jaw ground together like he didn’t know what to do when it wasn’t and that, Five could work with.

Luther was the only one that resembled his comic book counterpart nearly down to a tee. It was clear that he was reeling from the loss of his commander.

“Get away from me,” Five demanded. Luther took a step back. “Now turn around and f- Hey!”

Luther yanked the red book from Five’s hand so fast that his nails scraped against the gold _RH_. He yanked the book so hard that Five stumbled forward with the movement, dropping the magnifying glass in the process, “Give that back!”

“What do you think you’re doing with this?” Luther snapped. His big dump ape hand resting on Five’s shoulder like _he_ was the commander, like Five was under his command. He kept it there when Five tried to pull back.

Five snapped back, with his foot.

He kicked Luther in the shin and it did nothing. He threatened uselessly, “Let go of me or you’ll regret it!”

“That’s adorable,” Klaus hummed from Reginald’s chair. He was ignored.

“What else did you take?” Luther demanded, shaking Five’s shoulder violently. His free hand searched over him, feeling down his pockets and nearly tearing the button from his uniform jacket.

Five jerked back, “Stop!”

“Luther, stop.”

Neither of them knew when Allison had slipped into the room on silent feet, but she was there and everything froze.

Everything froze except her.

She stepped forward, stepping between them. She put her hand over Luther’s on Five’s shoulder and pulled it back. Five moved then, too.

He stepped back.

He huffed and pulled on his jacket. He glared, he vowed, “If you touch me again, I will murder you.”

Allison sighed, hand still on Luther’s, “What is going on?”

“He is stealing _again,_ ” Luther accused, picking the red book up from where it was dropped on the floor like evidence. He tossed it on the desk top, “Don’t you see it? First it was Dad’s monocle and now-“

Allison held up her hand and he went silent.

She turned to Five with a stern face where it had been sad eyed and puffy earlier in the hallway. Her voice echoed faintly with the same kind of something that was there when she said _I would like to say hello to my daughter,_ “Is that true?”

“No.”

Luther butted in, “I caught him red handed trying to take Dad’s book.”

“Ummmm, you definitely did not,” Klaus added, only to be ignored once more.

“To steal is to have the intention of leaving with it, I am _stuck_ here with your stupid pea brain,” Five replied sharply, jaw set and brows low. He was _not_ happy. He was frustrated and accused, and he felt smaller than he ever wanted to be. “If I wanted to steal something you wouldn’t know about it because I’m not a moron.”

“That’s – that does not help,” Allison sighed.

“He had the red book in his hands, Allison. He had Dad’s magnifying glass and he-“ Allison held up her hand again, silencing Luther.

She bent her knees a little so she and Five were eye level and asked, “Let’s figure this out, okay? Is there anything he said that you want to elaborate on?”

 _Elaborate_.

Five’s jaw went slack in a way that was unwilling. His breath landed heavy in his lungs for no reason at all, and his mind raced forward without him. He felt like he was out of his body, felt like his thoughts had weight, had tangible physical space and that they were suddenly suffocating him.

He thought about the man in the suit at Griddy’s counter, about the briefcase on the floor and the way that he had said with a sigh, _I thought that I had more time than this._

He thought about the voice to the face that he couldn’t see from the other side of the counter, _Elaborate, what made you think you could get away._

He thought about the bullets.

He thought about creaking floorboards in the hallways and how he knew it was not the nuns. He thought about the door being shoved open and complaints about management, about the lamp on his desk accidently being knocked over and the demand for the whereabouts of the briefcase, _elaborate, kid. We know you took it._

He thought about blood in his teeth and _goddamn it, kid,_ and the slice of a knife. He thought about falling and the weight of the hand on his shoulder.

“Five?”

He startled, taking in a sharp breath and then growled. He shoved Allison’s hand off him and snapped sharply, “If I wanted a mother, I’d pick a better one.”

He turned his face away from her hurt expression and then he turned his feet too and he stalked out of the room.

Five leaned against the wall just outside of the room, hidden slightly by a dead potted plant, and he breathed out. He listened to the murmuring of conversation and the start of an argument in the room and retained none of it.

He straightened his shoulders when _finally,_ “Séance.”

“You got to stop calling me that,” Klaus sighed, turning sharply and coming over to him. “What’s up?”

Five offered a solution to both their problems, “Help me find my duffle bag and I will pay you twenty dollars.”

“Deal.”

 


	9. All Things Must Behave

“I don’t see why we both need to be in the trash.”

The smell was palpable.

It was a tangible object in his peripheral, much like the crack in the concrete and the rust of the ladder. It was a weighty _thing_ like the pull of his broken stitches and the stick of cloth to blood, to ruined flesh. It was _worse_.

The sun was peeking through the clouds overhead with the sunny bright misery of dirty alleyways and thick city humidity. It was _soupy_ , pressing into his mouth with _taste_ and slicking wet down the back of his neck.

Every part of him felt smothered in the hot swamp of garbage and he wasn’t even _in_ the garbage. His body _wept_ under his shirt, and vest, and jacket.

He felt _gross_.

He wiped the hair and sweat from his brow and breathed out.

There was no relief that came with this weather, or this place, or this kind of standoff that he was having – the stupid kind of standoff that came with metaphorical tumbleweeds rolling down the windless alley and guns twirling between their fingers. It was a comic book standoff and comic books were _dumb._

It could come with a winner and a loser, and a conclusion.

He would get in the dumpster or he wouldn’t.

And he _wouldn’t_.

“Because.”

Five’s shoes squeaked against the bar of the fire escape ladder and he readjusted his one-armed grip, passing an unimpressed look down at the contents of the dumpster. His eyes did not waver from the question at hand, _why_.

“Because is not an answer,” He stated. “Why would I _possibly_ get in there with _you_?”

“Is me being in here the problem because I will gladly switch you places?”

Five sighed, “No.”

Klaus sighed, too.

He put his hands on his hips and planted his feet in the crushed carton of broken eggs and packet of rotting cheese in the mock of someone else’s disapproval, letting his shoulders drop like Five was somehow the problem here. He said like it was the most logical reason, “We’d look pretty ridiculous if there was only one of us in the trash, wouldn’t we?”

“This is _already_ ridiculous.”

“Are you worried that you’ll fall?” Klaus asked genuinely, stretching out his arms in front of him and then lifting them up to where Five was on the ladder. He wiggled his fingers out at him, “Come on, I told you that I would catch you.”

Five gave him a deadly look for even suggesting that he would need _caught_ and Klaus dropped his arms with a loud sigh. He reminded him firmly, “Your bag is _here_.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I said that it _is_ here so, actually, it is.”

“You said the same thing about the busted dryer in the laundry room,” Five stated. He laid his evidence out point by point, location by location. His patience thinning to a single point and nearly shattering.

He was _frustrated_.

He was tired, and dirty, and _hot_. He was near his wit’s end and he was pretty fucking sure that he was going to strangle Klaus with it if he was led to another pointless place where his bag _wasn’t_.

He felt like kicking himself for letting himself actually think that this was going to work, for thinking that because Klaus was different from Séance and desperate for cash that this would work. He swore that being around these – these _idiots_ was making him dumb.

“You said that my bag was underneath Diego’s bed,” Five added through his teeth. His hands tightened around the bar so tight that the cut on his hand was rubbing open. He didn’t care. “You said that it was in the bottom cabinet of the pantry, in the crawl space that only _I_ could fit in, and now-“

And _now_ , they were still empty-handed and Five could feel his shirt sticking to him uncomfortably with blood and sweat. His right side _burnt_ when he moved his arm. His patience was getting to a place of nonexistence, “ _And now_ , you want me to climb into a dumpster?”

“Pretty much, yep.”

Five snapped, “Why would Diego put my stuff in a _dumpster_?!”

“Well,” Klaus shrugged, picking up a shirt that had been balled up and thrown into the dumpster and shaking it out. He looked down at it and then up at Five with a grin, like this was all some kind of joke, “You saw how he handled evidence, mon cher.”

Five scoffed.

“Diego was always throwing my shit in the trash when we were kids. It was _annoying_.”

Diego was always throwing Klaus shit away because Klaus’ shit was _drugs,_ Five just barely didn’t snap at him because _no_. He shoved at his anger and his frustration to make room for something more useful but all that poured into the space was more frustration and anger.

He took in a breath that tasted of trash.

He reminded himself that he was _not_ getting in that dumpster and simply climbed down the ladder. He announced to himself, to Klaus and the world once his feet were on solid ground, “You are all morons.”

He shook his head, unable to believe that he let himself be goaded into spending an hour looking for his bag with the world’s most idiotic superheroes, “All of you are – _useless_.”

“Hey, that’s a little harsh,” Klaus said, leaning over the side of the dumpster. Now it was Klaus who was looking down at him, tilting his head like he was talking to a kid, “Soooo, am I getting that cash or what?”

“You didn’t find anything!”

“You didn’t say I had to find it,” Klaus countered.

Five’s eyes narrowed into slits, his jaw tightening, “Yes, I did. You were supposed to _know_!”

“Look, kiddo, I barely _know_ Diego,” He said, waving his hand back and forth. “Hate to break it to you but we’re not the tight-knit group of freaks that Netflix makes TV shows about. You’re thinking of like, the X-Men, man. We don’t even talk.”

“You think that we spend every waking moment together?” He continued, cutting off Five’s sharp response before it could cut his tongue. “Allison had a baby and I found out about it flipping through the channels at a halfway house on the southside. The last time I saw Diego before yesterday, he _arrested_ me. I can tell you, we’re not sharing our feelings or our new hiding spots.”

“Look at it this way, Five-O,” Klaus added. “If I saw him on the street, I wouldn’t say hello. I’d say, _‘fuck off, pig’_ and that would just be for the cop thing.”

Five said through his teeth as calmly as he could, “I am _only_ paying you to find my bag. You don’t get anything for failing to do so.”

“It’s in here, somewhere,” Klaus insisted, kicking open a trash bag and then kicking through its contents. “Trust me.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“That’s rude but okay.”

Five opened his mouth to respond but promptly shut it when Klaus’ eyes shifted over his head. He gave a little wave and a toothy smile, “Heya, sis.”

Allison was walking down the alley when Five turned around, wearing new lipstick and a deep determination that would not be shaken. She gave her own smile and her own wave, eyes meeting Five’s when she said, “Hi, boys.”

Klaus asked, “What’s up?”

“We’re going out so get out of the trash, Klaus,” She stated, crossing her arms over her chest. “And both of you, change your clothes. Dress presentable.”

Klaus asked, “Where?”

Five demanded, “Why?”

Allison barely blinked at eye at them, her voice staying a steady calm, “Because that is what I said to do. I am clearly the only adult here and I’m putting a stop to – whatever you two think you’re doing.”

“You can’t-“

“You’re bored, I get it,” She said, cutting Five off. “You’re angry and you’ve been through a lot, and I know that it’s very frustrating to be told that you’re stuck, but you’re not talking to me like you did earlier. It was hurtful, and I will let it slide _once_. You are not a prisoner here.”

“So,” She concluded. “We’re having a little outing today.”

“Uhhhh, did Diego approve that?”

“No one here needs Diego’s approval to have a little fun, Klaus,” Allison said, turning on her heels. “Dress appropriately. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

 

Five felt like he was on a field trip.

It was step, step, step in a single file down the block. It was Allison leading the way and Klaus talking just to hear his own voice, and both of them looking back to make sure that he was still there.

It was step, step, step, dragged feet down city streets and the dry heave of a sigh. _Of course_ , he would still be trekking behind them. He didn’t have his bag.

It was step, step, step.

It was Allison saying, “You’ll like this, trust me.”

It was Klaus saying, “Are we almost there?”

Five sighed deep inside himself and pulled on his jacket sleeves. He pulled his vest away from his body, and considered the sad fact that he was no longer sure if it was blood or sweat that was dampening the fabric.

He didn’t have much time to consider because Allison was pulling to a stop with a smile on her face. She announced, “We’re here.”

Five blinked in front of him.

Much like the Hargreeves children and the Umbrella Academy, the Icarus Theatre was not what he was expecting and it was not what it seemed.

Five found himself often walking passed the three red doors of the theatre’s entrance multiple times. He found himself thoughtlessly passing by the old brick and the plain pillars, and never thinking twice of the theatre or those who went inside.

He knew that Vanya was a violinist.

He knew that she played third chair in an orchestra.

He could have passed her on the street at any time and never noticed it, he thought to himself. He pulled on his sleeves again and pointed out, “It’s a closed practice.”

“I know.”

Five watched from the sidelines, looking and feeling like a disgusting _child_ , as Allison charmed the sole security guard. She was signing an autograph when Klaus ran his fingers into his hair suddenly, making it stick up with sweat.

Five slapped his hand away and then shoved him away. Klaus laughed, “Now there’s a look, kiddo. Real rock and roll. I love it.”

“I wish you’d overdose.”

“Harsh,” Klaus sighed, sitting his hand on Five’s shoulder and letting it slide off. “Are you still pissed about your bag?”

“Yes.”

Klaus bent at the knee, leaning down so far and so close that Five could see the specks of green in his eyes, and he grinned. It was something big and manic, and _telling_ , “Why don’t you double your little finder’s fee and I’ll tell you where I really think Diego hid it.”

Five’s lips parted in surprise, unable to decide if he’d been tricked by Klaus or not before Allison was leading them up the stairs to the balcony. They got an overview of the practice as they sunk into uncomfortable chairs.

“This is neat, isn’t it?” Allison whispered.

Five didn’t respond.

It would be almost too easy to crush the small hopeful smile on her face. It would be so easy to say through his teeth that _no_ , he wasn’t enjoying himself. _No,_ he wasn’t Claire. _No,_ she wasn’t his mother.

He didn’t like classical music.

He like Delores’ music and she liked Bon Jovi and church organs.

He kept his eyes glued on Klaus and asked, “Why is _he_ here?”

Allison looked back, following Five’s pointed gaze to Klaus swaying with the sound of the orchestra. She sighed and shrugged, “Well, he is enjoying himself.”  

Five threw her a bone and smiled, but there was nothing behind it but the simmer of anger. She saw beneath the mask and reached out for him, but Five wasn’t there.

All he had was anger inside of him. He was frustrated, and he was in pain, and the only thing he _needed_ was his duffle bag, so he could _leave_. It felt – there was a part of him that was putting pieces together and that had decided that Klaus was doing Diego a favor.

He _must_ have misread the family dysfunction.

He took things in the Hargreeves Manor at their face value as if the legacy of that manor wasn’t built upon masks. He let himself be deceived because he was too wrapped up in comparing real people to comic books, too wrapped up in the memories of guns, and blood, and _elaborate._

He was being childish and stupid, and his calculations had been _wrong_ when he was never wrong. He was thrown off kilter and never righted himself, and let himself be the idiot.

He let himself believe that Diego would help him and his stuff was stolen.

He let himself believe that Klaus would help him find it, and he was wrong again.

He _bought_ Klaus’ help and Diego could have done the same thing, but with more money, or drugs, or family loyalty. Five didn’t even consider it.

He was smart.

He was supposed to be smarter than everybody and he –

Five was shaking.

He could feel the bubbling of anger in flesh. He could feel the vibrations shatter his heart and numb his fingers and shake into his teeth and wound in his side. He reacted before Allison could.

Klaus was all bones and fur-lined collar beneath his hands. He was soft and he moved easily because he didn’t prepare for things the way that Five prepared for everything. He wasn’t a fighter so instinct wasn’t there.

He didn’t block the punch.

Klaus’ head turned with the power behind the hit and Five cried out a scream. He threw closed fists and open hands until it hurt to do either, and he _swore_. He yelled, and pushed at the hands on his shoulders, and the arm that wrapped around his waist tightly.

He felt the fight leave him like the breath in his lungs, and everything went white around the edges with the burst of pain from his side. He went slack.

When his vision came back to him, he was sitting on the floor.

The carpet was stiff beneath his hands and it itched his palms, but it was silence that jarred him into an acute aware. All at once, Five was aware of the hand rubbing his back and the fur collar pressed against his shoulder, and that there wasn’t an orchestra playing.

Allison was talking to the security guard that let them in, coaxing smiles from them and clearing away trouble. Klaus was next to him, splitting a busted lip back open with a grin when Five looked at him, “You got a mad swing on you, kiddo. Gonna have to ask you not to use it on me again though.”

Five just blinked.

Allison was back before Five was required to fill a space in the silence and told them both to get up, and to follow her. They listened because there wasn’t much else to do. Five felt lighter, felt lost.

He felt as if he was watching himself go through the motions, like he was outside of himself. He watched his feet follow Allison’s high heels down the stairs and then down the aisle to the stage. He watched himself get closer and closer to the mortified, _horrified_ expression on Vanya’s face.

Klaus waved a hand in the air from behind him, “Woohoo, little sis!”

Allison shushed him.

Most of the orchestra was gone, having packed up their things quickly and left but Vanya wasn’t one of them. Allison walked forward and people whispered to themselves that she was _that_ Allison Hargreeves.

Five lingered behind her and Klaus followed suit, whispering, “Bet there’s at least one virgin on that stage right now.”

Five didn’t respond.

He watched Vanya flinched slightly when Allison reached her hand out to rub her elbow. He watched Allison miss that cue and touch her anyways, smiling the celebrity kind of smile that hid the failed marriage on the red carpet as she apologized for actions that weren’t hers, “But what I heard sounded amazing.”

“What are you doing here?” Vanya asked.

Five could see Allison falter for a second and then took a breath, dropping the pretenses, “I didn’t like the way that we left things. I’m – I’m actually trying to do better at things like that and I – I wanted to apologize. I was upset, and I don’t agree with the things you did but I was also being intentionally mean. I’m sorry, and I’m sorry about them.”

She gestured back to him and Klaus, “I thought that this was a good idea, believe it or not.”

The _RH_ on Vanya’s violin case reflected in the overhead lights when she brought it up to her chest, holding it there. Five felt that lingering need to touch it, but he didn’t.

He redirected his eyes from the lettering to Vanya’s death-white grip on the case’s handle and the jerky movement of her head as she nodded, “I’m sorry too.”

“I know,” Allison said softly, smiling softer. “I’ve never heard you play before.”

“I invite you to all of my shows.”

Allison faltered again, mouth forming a perfect O before squeezing into a straight line. She nodded again, “And I should make the time to come. I don’t know why I haven’t before. I was thinking that we could go out for lunch or-“

“Helen,” Vanya cut off, turning sharply to the violinist as she passed. She took a hurried step towards her, smiling something small and pathetic even to Five, “You were great today. Really, really great.”

Helen barely looked up, “Thanks.”

“It’s those runs in the Stravinsky,” Vanya continued. It was almost painful. “I’ve been hacking at them for weeks – and you just make them – you make them look so easy.”

“What’s your name again?” Helen asked, finally giving Vanya her attention.

Vanya looked caught off guard with the question, shrinking down inside of herself, “V-Vanya.”

“How many years have you been stuck at third chair?” She asked, eyes drifting from Vanya to Allison, to Klaus with mild disinterest. Her eyes landed back on Vanya when she stated coldly, “At a certain point, it’s not about practice. It’s whether you’ve got something special and maybe you just don’t.”

Helen hiked her purse over her shoulder and grabbed her case, “You can put in your ten thousand hours, or you can go find something that you’re actually passionate about and stop slogging away at Stravinsky like a scared thirteen year old.”

“Think it over,” She said absently, moving passed Vanya, passed Allison and Klaus. “Oh, and try to remember that these are closed practices for a reason.”

Vanya didn’t move, eyes downcast to the floor and shoulders curled in. Her embarrassment was tangible. She didn’t move an inch but Allison, swerving her head around to look at Helen’s retreating back, “Oh no, that bitch really just didn’t. She can’t talk to you like that.”

“Allison,” Vanya said softly, holding onto her sleeve when she took a step forward. The ghost of a smile filtered across her face, “Don’t make a scene.”

“She’s not going to talk to my sister like that,” Allison stated. “Especially when you’re a _great_ violinist. Someone should take the bow out of her ass. Seriously, who does she think she is, Beethoven?”

“Beethoven was a pianist.”

Five shifted his gaze away from the de-escalation of the conversation to sisterly talk and forgiveness, watching as the door slowly closed behind Helen Cho.

His mind echoed in Delores’ voice, _your duffle bag is not here._

It repeated, _cut your losses like you’ve cut everything else._

It reminded him, _you’ve lost everything before._

It told him, _run_.

Five breathed in the words on his tongue that whispered, _I’ve never lost you before._ He blinked away the heat in his eyes and shifted his gaze to the red door, to the exit sign, to Klaus.

He made a plan, “Do you know the streets around here?”

Klaus shrugged, “Well enough.”

Five nodded.

He steeled his jaw and he took the first step in his new plan, “I will double your pay if you take me to a department store right now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY for my wonky updating. Life is a little too hectic at the moment, but I am hoping to get back on a weekly basic, or at least once every two weeks. Thank you for reading!


	10. Chase Your Memory Away

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up._

Be. Quiet.

There was a scar on his wrist.

A little jagged something-or-other. A barely-there, never-there reminder of an injury that he _never_ thought about, that didn’t _mean_ anything. A thin line that rose pink off tan skin midway up his forearm and all the way down to the center of his palm. A clean cut.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

_Shut up._

It wasn’t an injury that he put much thought into. It wasn’t a scar that he’d spent any particular amount of time _ever_ thinking about because he _didn’t_ think about it at all. He wore long sleeves half the time anyways, so he didn’t see the scar.

He _had_ scars.

He had a _ton_ of scars that were important, or cool, or impressive.

The one on his wrist was not one of them.

There was nothing special about the scar on his wrist, nothing cool. It wasn’t attached to a neat little story about heroics or stupidity, or _boys being boys._ There was nothing interesting to say that trace back to his rich kid childhood or his vigilante twenties.

It wasn’t like the scar that gouged a place out on his thigh from when he got stabbed by a perp or the surgical scar from a ruptured spleen he got during a boxing match. It was nothing like the scar on his head that was _always_ there, twisted and thick, and smooth to the touch with a story that he’d never told, never forgot.

It was just a scar.

“So,” Diego muttered to himself. “ _Stop_ thinking about it.”

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he drove, drove, drove further away from the manor, and the kid, and the ridiculous notion that he was somehow doing something _wrong_ by going to his job. He shook away the thought, “Stop thinking.”

He shook away everything but the mission at hand.

Talk to Eudora. Get back on the case.

The scar was just something that was _there_ , and not in any particular fucked up kind of way that things like the manor, and those dumb comic books, and Ben lurking like a ghost in the back of his head were there. It was a fixture of himself.

Nothing more.

He twisted the wheel and pulled up against the curb, breathing out. He put the car in park and dropped his keys into the passenger seat, breathing in.

He ran his hand into his hair, breathing out and breathing in. He centered his emotions and crushed them beneath his feet, and then pulled up his sleeve. He rolled his eyes.

He could barely _see_ the scar with his wrist guard on so, “Stop thinking about it, D. It’s just a fucking scar.”

The last time he even thought about the scar was a whole lifetime ago, at the police academy when he and Eudora had decided to put aside their rivalry and give this whole being friends thing a try. They’d went out the night before and he was hungover, sweating vodka onto his bedsheets and drowning in her laminated notecards.

She’d been perfectly amused, stroking her fingers up his arm as she raised the card in his hand to his eye level, “Ask me another question, Hargreeves.”

“Ask me nicely, Patch.”

“Fuck you.”

“You offering?”

She had hit him in the chest and tightened her hand around his wrist, “We’re studying. Now.”

“Which of the following actions by a criminal is most likely to be caused by an unconscious desire for punishment,” He had groaned, squinting at the small text on the card. He’d licked the nausea off his lips, “You already know this one, Dora.”

“Don’t call me Dora, and give me the options,” She had directed him, and then asked just as fast, “How did you get this scar?”

“Fucking around with a knife when I was a kid,” He remembered replying to her because it _was_ true, because that was what happened when your deranged adopted father based a knife-throwing superhero on you and then told you that the world was going to end. “Slipped up doing something dumb, got cut.”

It wasn’t his only scar, not even the most prominent one. He had pointed out that fact to her, tapping at the scar on the side of his skull that still fresh and pink, tender to the touch. He had been young and cocky then, with so much to prove to everybody, “Wanna ask me about this one?”

She had given him an unimpressed look, always so unwilling to play his games, “No, I don’t. I asked about this one.”

“Okay then,” He had breathed out, lifting his arm out of her touch. He held the notecard up, “Option A is refusing to reply when questioned by the police. Option B is revisiting the place where the crime was committed. Option C is claiming – It’s B, we both know that it’s B, Patch.”

“Did it hurt?”

Her fingers were pressed back against his wrist, unfolding the limb from where it pressed against his side. Her touch was gentle the way that Eudora wasn’t with him, careful.

He had joked, “When I fell from Heaven?”

“When you got the scar.”

He had sighed.

He had breathed in the thick overwhelming scent of dirty laundry, sweat, and alcohol, and that echoey sawdust smell that had followed him from the manor, to the academy, to the gym that he lived in now. She had pressed her fingernails against the raised skin, pressing down lightly and then letting go.

He remembered the white of her fingerprints pressed into his skin and the way that they faded as she let go completely.

He remembered sighing.

He remembered thinking, _I don’t have to tell her anything._

He remembered the solid way that resolve had settled into his gut because he wasn’t going to tell her that he’d been fucking around with a scalpel that he stole when he was fucking _hungry_ for validation, and food, and being the superhero, survivalist, _son_ that Reginald wanted. That Luther effortlessly was.

He wasn’t going to tell her that he’d been delusional in summer heat and starving from endurance training, and he felt _paranoid_ that something bad was going to happen. He felt like a superhero without power, without a mask, and he _needed_ the scalpel to fucking survive.

He wasn’t going to say that he shoved the blade up his sleeve and secured it with tape, that he went to training, to the gym, to the back alley with Klaus and Ben to smoke cigarettes. He wasn’t going to tell her about the sketchy guy that Klaus knew, that offered ‘good times’ and white powder to his brother.

He wasn’t going to tell her that he pulled the blade out of his sleeve, that he spat threats onto the concrete, that the blade got stuck in the tape on the way out and _sliced_.

He wasn’t going to tell her that he had sliced away his skin in one fluid movement. He wasn’t going to say that the cut had been deep, and his blood had been dark, and _that_ was what scared the guy away.

He wasn’t going to say that he had wadded up half a roll of paper towels in his sleeve and tried to hide it instead of getting stitches because Grace wasn’t allowed to see them for the week, because Reginald said that moms didn’t survive the end of the world and they needed to figure out shit for themselves. He didn’t say that he didn’t go to anybody because he ignored it, ignored Ben’s concerns, ignored all of Klaus’ apologies.

He wasn’t going to mention that he had passed out later that day and how Klaus had tried to take the blame. He wasn’t going to mention that Reginald punished them both in separate and cruel ways, and that Klaus came back shell-shocked and different. He wasn’t going to complain that the Hargreeves manor was a fucking nightmare to grow up in.

He wasn’t going to say a goddamn thing because Ben was still going to be dead, and Klaus was still going to be addicted to drugs, and all he was ever going to have was the dumb little scar on his wrist that didn’t mean shit.

He had smiled with all his teeth and pulled his arm away from her, telling her what she actually wanted to know, “I didn’t try to slit my wrists, Eudora.”

“I know that,” She had said like they both didn’t know that she had wondered it, like they both didn’t know that he went off the rails after Ben’s death and never recovered from it. Never _would_ recover from it. “I was just curious.”

He was only really thinking about old wounds, and old memories, and the scar that meant nothing now because traffic was slow getting to the precinct. Mom was home and that was _weird_ , and he kept repeating in his head the way that he had claimed that day, ‘ _I’ve had worse than this. This is nothing, it’s nothing. I’m fine.’_

He remembered the kid on that bench outside of Grimbel’s, unknowingly bleeding, claiming, _‘nothing I haven’t experienced before and worse.’_ He remembered the kid in the kitchen claiming, _‘it’s a flesh wound,’_ and _‘I’m fine,’_ and _‘I know how to take care of myself.’_

Every instinct in his body was snapping at him to turn the fuck around. His muscles jumped, and his jaw clenched, and his heart _pulsed_ with the reminder that he left the kid in a _monster house_ , that Luther’s big dumb ass would _crush_ the kid.

It was a horrifying and terrible notion that the kid was _a lot_ like him at that age – angry, hungry, scared, willing to put himself in front of anything if it got a fight. _Go back. Turn around. Don’t be an idiot._

“Shut up,” He whispered.

“Allison is there,” He reassured.

“The kid is going to spend all day looking for his bag,” He _knew_.

There was nowhere safer for the kid to be than a place that no one was going to look for him in. Diego wasn’t on the case. Five called him from a payphone. No one knew where he was.

No one knew. No one knew at all.

It was a big place.

There was a good chance that no one was ever going to interact with _anybody_ so that was – that was a little reassuring. Five was going to spend all day looking for the bag that he wouldn’t find and that was fine.

He told himself, “It’s fine. It’s _fine.”_

Six out of seven kids made it out of the manor alive. _Shut up._

Shut up.

“Hargreeves.”

A hand slapped down on the hood of his car, snapping him out of his thoughts with a neck-breaking speed. He blinked, hand on the knife at his hip before he could process Davison’s face in the window.

He dropped his hand, breathing out, “Hey.”

“You coming inside or what?” Davison asked. “Chief’s got a meeting in five.”

“What? No, yes,” He shook his head. “Not my meeting though. I’m – on a different case. Got to pick up some shit, you know.”

“Sure thing, man.”

There was a bustle to the precinct.

The station was always a busy place even with half the officers in the conference room. Diego could taste it in the air, the electrified energy that said _something is happening here._

He could hear it in the _click, clack, clack_ of McKinley’s keyboard. He could see it in the flicker of Jacobs’ eyes towards the closed curtains of the conference room. He could _feel_ it in the buzz that tickled his senses and he asked, “What is it, man?”

He breathed in something charged that had been lingering, something electric that started a fire inside of him and burnt him into solid steel. He was determined. He wanted everything to go back to the normal that he had before Reginald’s death.

He wanted to be a part of something.

“Patch’s case took a turn.”

Diego’s head snapped over to Jacobs, the icy touch of anticipation turned to frostbite in his chest. It froze his nerves with the cold, cold realization that he’d made a mistake. His voice croaked, “What?”

“It’s crazy, man,” Jacobs shook his head, typing something into his computer before shaking his head again. “Crazy.”

“What happened?”

“It’s – All I’ve heard is that it’s a lot more complicated than the chief was anticipating, you know,” Jacobs said vaguely, typing more. “Want some coffee?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Diego should have brought the kid in last night. He should have called Eudora. She was going to be angry with him.

He took a breath and all that worry melted into who he was. Steely and determined, and a detective that _should_ be on this case in the first place.

It _was_ his case.

He leaned against his desk, dropping the black duffle bag from his shoulder onto the floor and kicking it underneath. He asked when Jacobs came back, “The meeting just started?”

“Yeah, its – _no_ ,” Jacobs’ eyes went big and round like saucers. “I’m telling you this _once_ , Hargreeves. If you weren’t told to be in that room than don’t go. Keeley will have your badge and your head if you bust in there. They got some FBI bullshit tied up in this now.”

Diego breathed out, “Patch in there?”

“I have no idea.”

There was a kind of buzz that raised the hair on the back of his arms, that made Diego want to strike fast and hard with the knife up his sleeve. He pushed off his desk because he had to. He repeated in his head, _Patch, I need to tell you something._

He stepped forward because he wanted to, _you know that kid from the doughnut shop massacre._ He stepped forward because he was here to tell her the truth about the kid, _he was attacked last night. He’s safe. He’s in the teeth of a different kind of monster._

He turned on his heels sharply, forcing his feet to move away from the conference room door, away from his desk and he _walked_. One step, two, three, four… until he was standing in front of Eudora’s desk.

He tried to write a note on her post-its pack, _~~I need to talk -D.~~ _

_~~So, about that kid-~~ _

_~~I love you~~ _

He crumbled the notes up and tossed them in the trash.

He was going to get back on the case, he assured himself. It _was_ his case. It called him up in the middle of the night and followed him home. It slept in his sister’s bedroom and ate breakfast made by his mother.

The kid _was_ his.

Diego put his hands flat against the desktop, let eyes scan over the contents of the desk and then the room. Jacobs was typing, McKinley was leaving. No one looking at him, so he crouched down until he was barely seen at all.

He felt around the underside of the desk for the key to the drawer that Eudora kept her files. He breathed, repeating to himself as his fingers scraped over nothing, _tell her. Tell her. Tell her. If you don’t tell her than you’ll push her further away._

_If you tell her, she’ll be pissed. If you don’t, she’ll be pissed._

_The FBI is on this now._

Her computer was on, but it was asleep. Her purse was wedged almost unseen against the monitor. Her coffee was cold, and the key was – “Damn it.”

“Pullman,” He called, standing up as the man passed by. He ran his hand down his face before dropping back into Eudora’s seat. “How long is Patch going to be in that meeting?”

“She’s not in the meeting, Hargreeves,” He replied. “She’s at the crime scene.”

“…What crime scene?”

 

There was a bubblegum soft stickiness to the church front steps.

There was a crowded kind of breathiness that smelt of stale coffee and cigarettes, that made his skin feel clammy. He grimaced as he walked passed the rows and rows of cameras and flashes, and microphones being shoved at him.

There was an annoyingly familiar voice, “Detective Hargreeves.”

A flash of a camera and an arm wrapping around his bicep, “Detective Hargreeves, do you have a word for the press?”

A microphone in his face, “Detective Hargreeves, is this shooting in connection to the Griddy’s Doughnut massacre?”

“Hello to you, Crystal,” He sighed, fixing a smile on his face like this was just another one of Reginald’s book promotions. He relaxed his shoulders and met her eyes, “You know that I can’t answer any of your questions at this time.”

She popped her gum the way that she always did, pushing her glasses up her nose. Her microphone stayed steady between them as her camera man balanced on the step below them.

It was cute the way that she leaned in close like they were just friends sharing a secret, “Is it safe to assume that your lack of response is an answer in itself?”

“No, it’s not,” He told her, leaning in too. “Between you and me, and all the viewers of your blog, these steps are the property of the church. Unless you want ticketed for trespassing, I would move back to the sidewalk.”

He straightened his shoulders, “Ma’am.” 

 

Life was a goddamn backslide.

Diego felt more and more like he was walking through different moments of his life that were stagnant and the same. Everything was moving, but it wasn’t. It was the same, except that it was different, or upside down, or broken.

Different places. Different times. Same dialogue.

He walked through the echoey halls of the church, followed the steps that he had taken the day before except that he wasn’t following Five. He wasn’t watching the bloody footprints of his socked feet trail behind him, he was alone.

He took step, after step, after step through the church, down the door in the back that led to the subfloor that the orphans slept on. He walked, and walked, and walked until the halls were stiff with noise and CSI, and detectives.

He could door down the hall, cracked open with the five still crooked.

He was the repeat of a tortured character, stuck in a never finished loop of an author’s continual rewrite. It was just getting worse, and worse, and more, and more horrifying with every new variation.

He asked a plain-clothed detective, “What happened?”

“Someone broke in with a gun,” He said once he saw Diego’s badge. “Opened fire sometime last night. There were some injuries but nothing severe, but there’s a kid missing.”

Diego breathed out.

The dawning acknowledgement that everything that Five had said was something very real sat heavy in his chest. He had believed the kid. He’d seen the evidence in the wear and tear of the kid’s clothes, and body, and mood, but it was different seeing what happened.

It was different when he was staring into the defiance on Five’s face. It was different hearing the words, _white male, thirteen. Dark hair, green eyes, last seen wearing a school uniform but could be in blue pajamas._

There were bullet holes in the wall that came from inside of the room, shooting through the plaster and lodging themselves in the opposite wall. The door was open and in it was the little blonde girl that had whispered to him that bad things followed Five.

She was still in her blue pajamas, pigtails messed up from sleep. She had a teddy bear squeezed in her arm as talked to an Officer Montgomery. Diego stepped towards her, asking, “Did she see anything?”

“No,” She shook her head. “She heard footsteps in the hallway around two last night and the sounds of people talking. She said that she heard the door across the hall open.”

“It’s squeaky,” The girl added. “Five said that he was going to fix it, but I don’t think he knew how ‘cause he never did, and then there was a really loud noise, and then even more loud noise. It was scary.”

“I can imagine,” Diego said.

She squeezed her teddy bear tighter, “I hid in the closet.”

“That’s good, that’s great,” Diego told her as comforting as he could. He felt a sickness roll in his gut, felt something _hit_ like a fist, like bullet in the chest. _Gunshots._ “When something like that happens, the best thing to do is to find somewhere safe and stay there. You did a good thing, Delores.”

“My name isn’t Delores,” She said, blinking at him. “It’s Katie.”

“Oh…” Diego blinked. He’d assumed that… she seemed close to Five, or well, close enough. She was the only one that seemed to even acknowledge the kid, “There someone hear that, uh, that Five talks to?”

“He doesn’t talk to anybody. He stays in room all day and does chores, and Monica says that he skips class all the time to drink coffee. Sometimes I hear him talk in his room, but the door is always shut.”

“You’ve never seen-“

“Hargreeves.”

Diego looked up. He could read the words on Eudora’s tongue before she said them. He knew what they were going to be before she even formed them on the tip of his tongue.

He stood up and walked to her, meeting her just as she spat out, “You can’t be here.”

He remembered this.

He remembered her – barely seventeen and wearing a neon green ride-along sash across her chest. He remembered her arms crossed over her t-shirt the way that they were now crossed over her blazer, telling him both times in no uncertain terms, “You can’t be here. You need to get lost before someone gets you in trouble.”

It had been a domestic violence call then, some argument that had turned violent and then worse. Foster kids placed in a home that was pretty on the outside and worse on the inside, the white picket fence stained red with the blood of the youngest.

It was bad now. It was worse than.

He said, with blood on his knuckles and a bruise at his smile like he was fifteen all over again, “And who would do that?”

“Me.”

“I’m good at this,” He said, unable to take his eyes off the crack in the door and what lied beyond it. He needed to see the room to understand what happened, to understand _how_ something like this happened.

He needed to tell her that Five was okay, that he had him. He needed to tell her the truth, tell her everything. He said, “You know I can help.”

“I know that the captain said no and that I do not need – do not _want_ your help,” She said sharply, grabbing his arm and pulling him down the hall. He planted his feet in the middle of it, and she rolled her eyes.

She told him very clearly, “The next time that you interfere with this investigation, no. _No_ , the next time that you so much as _breathe_ on one of my witnesses, or touch a piece of evidence, or show up at my crime scene, I will charge you with obstruction of justice.”

“You will lose your job, Diego,” She stressed. “You could do jail time. Is that clear?”

Diego rolled his shoulders back, stuck in his role as a cocky young kid with a chip on his shoulders. He knew what he should said, and it wasn’t, “Damn, you need to relax, Eudora.”

“Diego-“

“All this bureaucracy shit-“

“I said not to call me that at work and I’m not going to relax when there is a missing kid out there, and by the way, Diego, this bureaucracy shit is _our_ job,” She said. “Running around beating people up and trying to work cases that you’re not on is not how you put criminals behind bars, it’s how you let them off with a technicality.”

Diego sighed.

The cockiness that had settled in his jaw ground down into dust. He reminded himself that he was here to tell Eudora about the kid, He was here to – “Can I just look? I was a kid like this, maybe there’s something that I can see that you can’t. There has to be something that explains what happened.” 

She sighed this time, rolling her eyes before opening the door, “You have two minutes.”

Diego didn’t need to be told twice.

He slipped into the room, breathing out a heavy breath of thick morning air from the broken window. There were bullet holes in the wall and the floor. He followed them around the room with his eyes, tracking the long-lost neatness in the disarray.

There was a lot of writing on the wall, both figuratively and literally. The messiness of a child’s scrawl faded away in the quick strokes of a kid that knew what he wanted to write, it spoke of a sagacity, of a smart kid is the same place for too long, of Delores.

There were childish drawings written over with mathematical equations that Diego didn’t understand. There were words that were sloppy and marked out. There was a stack of college level textbooks, and comic books, and library books dotted with blood on the shelves.

It was all so _normal_ that it made Diego feel sick.

He was just a kid.

He picked up a comic that had been dropped on the floor, _The Umbrella Academy,_ and looked at the scribbled notes in the margins, tearing apart everything that didn’t make sense. He managed to swallow his nausea at that.

“The picture is pretty clear,” Eudora said, voice like an echo in the back of his mind. He had followed it to understand, to get out of his own head. “It was a planned attack. He was target, but it’s clear he escaped.”

“The fire escape is seven feet from this window,” She stated, going to the broken window and pointing out of it. Diego walked with her with words like, _the kid is safe, he is with me_ on the tip of his tongue. “It looks like he got injured, jumped, made it by the skin of his teeth. There’s a piece of clothing stuck to one of the joints.”

“If he didn’t make it, the fall isn’t that bad,” Diego pointed out, replaying in his head Five’s comment about Delores saying the calculations were wrong, replaying the limp that Five had been walking with. _Jesus_. “Did the kid next door hear anybody on the fire escape?”

“No. A heavy sleeper. Didn’t hear a thing.”

“Damn.”

“We’re treating this as a missing persons,” She said, and then signed. She told him, “You can’t be involved, Diego. I know how you take these cases. Usually that’s fine. But with everything that is going on in your life and with the chief in my ear, we’re _not_ doing this. If you have a tip, I’m here for it, but other than that. Leave.” 

His mind whispered, _tell her._

His mind demanded from his mouth, _she needs to know the truth._

His tongue felt slick with words and spit, and he opened his mouth to let it all fall out, but then a nun came into the room. She clutched her rosery to her chest, saying a quick prayer to the mess, “The boy was always trouble.”

She shook her head and told them that Five was a very smart and unusual kid, “It would get him in trouble at times. Small, minor little things. Do you – this is just one of those times. He always comes back.”

“Does he run away a lot?” Eudora asked.

Diego asked over top of her, “Why didn’t you name him?”

The question startled Diego because it was out of his mouth before he realized that he wanted to ask it. It was barbed and burning, something that wedged itself between his teeth. It was a rock in the shoe of thought, something that he kept acknowledging.

Five came to him.

Five knew him for less than an hour and he came to him first, not the nuns, not any of the kids on this floor, not Eudora.

Five didn’t have a name, just a number.

“How do you not name a child?”

Eudora warned softly, “Diego.”

“We let him pick his own name when he was old enough,” Sister Angela answered. “He simply didn’t want one.”

“Detective Patch?” Bayman said from the doorway. He held out a radio, “We got uniform arriving at the location?”

“Location?”

“The address the kid gave us yesterday,” Eudora said, grabbing the radio. She pressed the button, raddled off her badge number and her name. “There is the possibility that he’s hurt and a higher possibility that he will try to fight back. Keep in mind that he’s a scared kid.”

Diego didn’t move, and Eudora didn’t tell him to leave. It was like they both forgot that he was there when he wasn’t supposed to be, listening with bated breath as the officers knocked on the front door and then the back.

They listed off the darkness of the boarded-up windows, the abandoned overgrown front yard, the crushed beer cans. They listened as the officers called a warning and then broke down the door, as they cleared room by room, and came up empty, “Sorry, Patch, doesn’t look like he’s-“

There was a pause and the world went silent before the radio exploded with the sound of gunfire and the call for support. The cop on the radio described the shooter over the sound of broken glass as someone in a big metal mask that-

The line went silent, and then everything went silent.

There wasn’t a response when Eudora demanded one.

“B-Bayman!” She shouted. “Send people over there right now to see what happened. Have medics on the scene.”

“The kid wasn’t there,” Diego said, unable to make himself say that the kid was at his house because they both knew that those officers were dead. It was clear as anything that the kid was being targeted and Eudora knew it too.

It was a cold empty weight in their guts.

“Who else knew about the second location?” Diego asked dully. His eyes stayed trained on the scribbled note of the book in his hand, _Obvious Double Agent._ “Other than you and me, and the kid. Who could have known that he’d be there?”

“Someone from his past?” She suggested with a sigh, rubbing her hand over her eyes. “It was in my report.”

 _Report_.

There was something inside of Diego that plunged deep into Reginald’s paranoia, that said _this_ was right, _this_ was bad. The only people who knew were him, and her, and the kid, and the small group of people that would have had access to Eudora’s report.

It was the same something that made him a good detective, that told him to stick with his gut because _someone_ was after the kid and they were willing to kill. It’s connected to Griddy’s, but he didn’t know how.

All he knew that the police were not going to keep the kid safe.

He swallowed, “The kid wasn’t there.”

“Where else could he be?”

The nun offered, “We’ve been called a few times about him being at Grimbel Brother’s department store.”

 


	11. One Less Thing to Worry About Losing

There was a coldness to claustrophobia.

It was an internal aspect of a concept that everybody thought that they knew but didn’t. Not really. Not in the intimate way that he knew it.

There was a chill to the realization that the world was always overcrowded except in the times that it wasn’t, except when you were in need, incased in stone and rubble, and rock, calling out in desperate voices that would never be heard. There was a cold-touch shiver that ached with the acknowledgement that you were _stuck_ , and everything was stuck _on_ you, that it would be that way forever unless you did something about it.

There was no help. There was only ever _you_.

There was something so damning that pressed into his hands and curled his fingers into fists, something that cut like jagged rock little half-moons into old scars on his palms, that said _fight._ That said, _you have to do this yourself._ That said, _give up._

Every strike out was a strike for freedom, for escape, for _air_ to breathe. Every hit to an immovable force was to weaken the integrity of it, to crack it into pieces. Every scream was to be heard, understood, rescued.

Every hand over fist, over foot. Every crawl. Every _ounce_ of every _need_ to survive echoed in broken fingernails and bruised ribs, in the chalky first breath and the weight of sunlight because he got out. _He_ did it himself.

He didn’t need anybody.

The bump to his shoulder jarred him from the thoughts of ash and rubble, of a broken wrist and blazing fire heat, and he found himself standing on a busy street corner. The toes of his scuffed leather loafers were edged over the curb and the hand on his shoulder kept him from spilling over.

The hand slipped from the damp fabric as quickly as it landed, and Klaus’ voice was soft, “I _cannot_ deal if you get hit by a car, kiddo.”

Five took a step back.

He breathed in a shaky breath.

He breathed out.

He repeated the action.

The air on the street was thick and palpable with people and humidity, and the sun was high above them. It was chewy between his teeth, a tangible hefty taste of simmering heat mixed with the damp water smell of human sweat, of coppery blood, of dust, but he waded through it with tired feet and skinned knees, and a uniform dirtied with blood.

He didn’t know why he felt so cold.

He didn’t know why he could feel the edges of the world curl up around him until every step taken felt like walking into a corner. He tried to focus.

He could admit to himself that it was hard to do.

It was step, and step, and step, and step – left foot in front of right foot in front of left foot in front of right foot. Every stride, shuffled feet, _dragging._ He had to _move_. He had to keep moving.

And inside his head, he kept screaming out, _I’m here. Someone is here. Help. I need help._

Inside his head, he kept scolding, _shut up, shut up, shut up._

Inside his head, he kept reminding himself, _forget the bag. Drop everything. Run._

“After this, we should get lunch,” Klaus hummed casually, offhandedly from his side. He was a step and a half behind Five since the WALK sign flickered on. He was there in the corner of his eyes like a shadow of black feathers. “Obviously, you should pay, little one. I am _helping_ you.”

“What should we get though?” He asked himself in an incessant, pointless hum. Unheard to Five’s clouded ears and his determination, _forget the bag, drop everything._ “I’m thinking waffles. Everybody likes waffles.”

“After this,” Five grounded through his teeth until the words were nothing but ash. He could taste the ash on his tongue, in his teeth, down his throat. He forced himself to breathe in, forced himself to breathe out, to cut a hard look to Klaus. “After this, we go our separate ways and you never talk to me again.”

After this, he was gone.

_Forget the bag. Drop everything. Run._

“What?” Klaus asked.

He seemed surprised but Five didn’t care.

Five put one foot in front of the other and walked, and walked, and walked, and _walked_ until he could see the sign for the Grimbles Brother’s Department Store in the distance. He ignored the questions, the cold touch to his fingertips and his toes, the way that he wanted to curl in on himself to make more _room._

He knew where he was now.

He didn’t need Klaus.

“You can go now,” Five dismissed absently, letting the words fall to the wayside without any real authority behind them because it didn’t really matter. Klaus was Klaus, and that meant nothing to Five.

He stared up at the letters painted on the glass store front as if they had an answer to a question that he didn’t know, as if they would tell him the way to open spaces and breathable air. He reached into the pockets of his shorts with numb fingers and shoved the last twenty-dollar bill he had at Klaus, “Go away.”

“Yeah, no. Diego would actually take that extra step to _murder_ me if I left his kid alone in a women’s clothing store.”

“I don’t care,” Five said, taking a breath as he wretched open the door. The cold air hit him like a freight train and passed through him like a ghost. He realigned his purpose and marched forward with cause, _forget the bag, drop everything._

_Get what you need. Go._

Klaus marched forward with want, “Actually, kiddo, you said that you’d give me _forty_ bucks. My math skills are – well, _shit_ , but I know this ain’t forty so…”

The woman behind the counter looked up from her magazine at the two of them. Her boredom slipped away when she took in Five’s disheveled uniform and his sweat slick hair and Klaus’ _everything_ , and then she winced.

She straightened her spine and her shoulders, and released a well-practiced sigh, “I’m sorry, but you can’t-“

Five held up his hand, “I cannot deal with you today, Ingrid.”

The words and the eye rolling, and all the actions that followed it felt like that of a very old play. It was well-practiced, memorized down to every tick. They’d done this song and dance a hundred time over, and Five always came in.

“The sign says no loitering,” Ingrid said with a sigh, pressing her fingertips to the glossy pages of her magazine. She waited a beat and then sighed again, “There is no point. She’s not here anymore.”

“I know that.”

Five took step, and step, and step further into the store. He distanced himself from the entrance, from Ingrid, from every possible indication that he should turn back. _Forget the bag. Drop everything. Run._

“Who isn’t here?”

Klaus’ voice cut like a dull saw through bone, ineffective and irritating. Five gritted his teeth, eyes filtering from the cop talking to the manager, to the one waiting by the door to leave, then to Klaus. He sighed, “ _Why_ are you still here?”

“You owe me another twenty.”

“I don’t _have_ another twenty.”

“Cool, cool, cool, looks like you’re stuck with me until you do,” Klaus said, bouncing on his toes, “Yeah, that or until D shows up to collect you from this fieldtrip.”

“I – The Kraken is not my father,” Five rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, well, who is?” Klaus asked, running over his own question with another, “Who isn’t here?”

“Delores.”

“That your mom?”

“I don’t know what part of orphan you seem to be failing to get,” Five rolled his eyes again. He looked over the racks of clothing towards the center of the store where they displayed new clothing on a set of mannequins and then to the cops that were now leaving. “Delores is – she is a friend, and she’s not here anymore so it doesn’t matter. The clearance section is over there. Leave.”

Five walked towards the center and then he walked passed it. He walked through the junior’s section, the women’s section, the men’s, the home décor until he knew that Klaus was not following him, and then he walked to the back of the store.

The back wall was wide and expansive, stretching the width of the store with little variation to the white paint. He pressed his hands against the solid white wall, pressed his forehead. He let himself breathed for a second, repeating to himself, _forget the bag, drop everything, Run._

Repeating, _she’s not here anymore._

Repeating, _you have to do this yourself._

He was _tired_. He was sweating and cold, and dirty, and _thirteen_. His mind wanted to scream, wanted to rest, wanted – wanted…

But Five had always been good at compartmentalization, at separating an exhausted child from a man that got things done, at separating desperate _want_ from _need_ , logic from irrational thought. _Drop the bag. Forget everything._

_Get what you need. Run._

He was good at losing things too. He had a whole lifetime of loss shoved into thirteen years, so he could lose again. Everything that was dear to him was in that bag, but it didn’t really matter.

Delores would tell him that it didn’t really matter.

She’d tell him that he was being crazy.

“I know I am,” He whispered with a small smile pressed to the wall. “I know.”

He got his weight under him and pushed himself back from the wall. He straightened his spine and buttoned his jacket. The time for self-pity was over. He had things to do.

Five’s hand stayed firmly against the wall as his feet moved him along the length of it. He trudged step after step until his hand dipped inward where the wall disappeared down the narrow hallway to the restrooms.

His mouth flickered up into a smile, into relief.

He walked down the hallway to salvation behind a green door.

It was step and step, and march, and stride, and tread to the door with the triangle woman and the missing _W_ , and – “Are you fucking kidding?”

He pulled on the hand again, and again, and again, and – “ _Fuck.”_

It was locked.

“Goddamn it,” He muttered, hands resting on his hips. He tapped out an irregular beat with his foot on the floor, gnawing the skin off his lip before he turned on his heels and marched to the front of the store. He demanded, “Hey!”

He directed his focus and his annoyance at one man – the one in the green management vest and a clipboard. His nametag read _Lance B – Floor Manager_ when Five marched up to him.

He demanded without really asking anything, “The bathrooms are locked.”

Lance wrinkled his nose when he saw Five before him, leaning back on his heels as he painted his face into something that was irritating and condescending. He’d asked, “Didn’t you see the sign on the door? The bathrooms are closed for renovation.”

“They weren’t closed _yesterday_ ,” Five accused.

“Sharp eye, young man,” Lance said, bending to rest his clipboard on his knees like he was a child. “If it is an emergency I’m sure that you can go to the store next door and use their-“

“I _need_ in this bathroom.”

“Well, young man, as you can-“

“ _No_. You listen to me, asshole,” Five snapped, wrapping his hand around the man’s dangling tie and yanking him down so they were eye to eye. “I’ve come a long way for this, through some shit that your pea brain can’t even _begin_ to comprehend, so just give me the damn key and I’ll be on my merry way.”

He yanked harder forcing Lance down to his knees so that he was the one looking down. He bared his teeth, seething his words through them, “If you call me young man one more time. I’m going to put your head through that goddamn wall.”

Lance stuttered, “C-Call security.”

Five hissed at the hand that landed on his shoulder, at the curl of fingers that didn’t actually pull him away. His canines slipped back behind his curled lip when he followed dainty fingers up a snake skin sleeve to blue, blue eyes. His fingers unwound from Lance’s tie as Klaus said commonplace, simple, “Maybe we should talk in the back.”


	12. The Boys in the Backroom

Chapter 12

The Boys in the Backroom

“Let me get this straight.”

There was a sign on the door that read _EMPLOYEES ONLY._ There was a sign beneath it that said _24-7 Monitoring,_ that said _Smile for the Cameras,_ that said _shoplifters will be persecuted._ There was a man on the other side of the door from the security company that spoke about cut wires in a loud thick Boston accent, and there was Klaus, wearing snakeskin. Next to him.

It was monotonous in how none of it mattered.

In how _nothing_ mattered, but the plan and the revisions.

The walls were peach colored, and the door was locked, and when Five let his eyes go unfocused at the corners, it felt as if all of it was closing in closer, and closer, and closer until there was no space between them. It was wall upon wall upon him, _inside_ him. Every breath was taken in a tight windowless void, compressing into his chest with an icy cold claustrophobia.

When he wasn’t thinking, he wasn’t breathing, and the clock on the wall _ticked, ticked, ticked._ Second, by second, by second, by second.

He forced a breath through his teeth.

He forced a sharpness into a dull response, “Is that something that your drug-addled mind is capable of? Thinking straight.”

“You’re right, let me get this _really fucking gay_ for one second,” Klaus rephrased with a sharp-edged _flair_ , cutting the tension with sequenced glitter. It was a useless endeavor as his chipped black fingernails danced over the peeling table top with a _tap, tap, tap._  

And the clock on the wall went _tick, tick, tick._

And the security company man said, _it’ll be down for the rest of the day, sir. I don’t know what to tell you._

Five sighed.

Klaus continued to talk, “You tried to beat the absolute fucking shit out of the floor manager of this _fine_ establishment because you needed to use the bathroom. Is that right?”

Five didn’t need to _use_ the bathroom. He just needed into the room but saying that felt exhausting in the worst possible way so, he shrugged. He said, “Sure.”

“Must be one hell of a shit.”

Five didn’t shift his eyes away from the door or bother to give Klaus a tired reaction of any sort. He was focused because he _had_ to be focused. He _had_ to fight through the exhausted cloudiness at the edges of his vision, through the monotony, through the coldness of his fingertips. He had to fight through dust-like claustrophobia clawing up his throat.

He was _here_ , not there.

He was here in a present moment, he reminded himself. He was _right here_ – in the department store, in the backroom, waiting. He was here because nothing went this far off the fucking rails in a flashback or a dream.

It had to be real.

He had more confidence in himself than this moment lent to him. He had hindsight in made-up scenarios and past memories. He _planned_ things so that shit like this didn’t happen. He thought things through, but he slipped up once at the diner and again when he called Diego.

It was human error.

He got too relax in his own intelligence, too confident in his ability to see ahead. He could hear Delores’ voice tinkering behind his ear, _you cannot predict human reaction with one hundred percent certainty. Not even your own._

He could hear her gentler words, _it’s okay to ask for help when you need it, Five._

“I don’t need it,” He whispered.

“What was that?”

“I’m thinking,” He said quickly, cutting a look from the door to Klaus. He pierced him with it, “Just remember your lines.”

“About that, just so we’re very clear on those finer details of this brilliant – no, this _absolutely_ brilliant plan of yours,” Klaus hummed amused, lulling his head back in his chair before turning his gaze towards Five.

His fingers were still _tap, tap, tapping_ against the table top as the clock _tick, tick, ticked_ on the wall and _Lance B. – Floor Manager_ sighed at the security company man on the other side of the door. “You want me to sit here and pretend to be your dad?”

Essentially, _yes_.

Essentially, Five very much did _not_ want that at all, but he _needed_ it.

All Five needed was for Klaus to be an adult here so that management didn’t feel the need to call the police about some dumb wayward _kid_. He needed to be able to get into that bathroom _today_ and middle management was always more willing to bend to a pissed off parent.

He needed to get out of this goddamn peach colored _hell_ so he could think of his next step somewhere that wasn’t so fucking _crowded_ and _loud._

Five needed to breathe so he did.

All the noise was starting to buzz in his ears, started to dig into his skin and vibrate broken stitches. He wanted to unhinge his jaw to the universe and scream at it until he was hoarse. He wanted a nap.

He wanted to _forget the bag, run._

He wanted to _drop everything, leave._

He wanted in that fucking bathroom so that he could do _that_.

His voice came out pained and grounded up, like glass into an open wound, into _his_ open wound that was still seeping blood from torn stitches. He felt dirty, felt _cold_ , “Something like that.”

“And this is to get you access to a gross public restroom?” He asked. “For a reason that you are not willing to share with the class even though the class would really like to know?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll pay me _after_?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you claimed not even fifteen minutes ago that you couldn’t give me an extra twenty?”

Five sighed through his teeth, “ _Yes.”_

“Okay so, what’s our cover story?” Klaus asked, face breaking out into a clownish grin as he shoved his fist up under his chin. He leaned in closer. “I was terribly _amazing_ in high school theater. Or well, I would have been if I went to a real high school.”

“ _Oh!_ ” He exclaimed before Five could say anything. “I got it. I had you when I was young and dumb, like sixteen and terribly misguided. Your mother, that _whore._ Whoever she was-“

Five pinched the bridge of his nose, “Shut up.”

“Don’t make me put you in time out, young man,” Klaus grinned, leaning back in his chair when the door opened. He crossed his hands over his knee and dropped his face into something severe.

Five just _barely_ didn’t roll his eyes.

It was for the best that Klaus remained silent anyways so if he wanted to do so with a dumb look on his face than that was fine. Five could work with that, so he got to his feet and he readied himself.

He pressed his hands against the table top, staring hard and not looking away from _Lance B. – Floor Manager._ He let distain slip from his lips, “It took you long enough.”

“Sorry,” Lance said in a sardonic voice and Five’s teeth gritted together. He curled his hands into fists against the table top as Lance directed the rest of his sentence to Klaus, “We had a situation here late last night and we’re still recovering from it. I’m sure that is something that you can understand, Mister…”

“Hargreeves,” Klaus supplied, not offering a hand with Lance extended one.

“Hargreeves,” Lance repeated the name like it tickled something at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite place. He let it drop like he let his hand drop and took a seat on the opposite side of the table, laying forms out in front of him. “Mister Hargreeves, I’m sure that it will come as no big surprise that this is not the first problem that we have come across with your…”

“Son.”

“Your son,” Lance continued.

Five remained standing where he was, fuming that he was being ignored. He was fuming that he had to _go_ through any of this.

“We have had many written complaints about rude behavior and loitering,” Lance explained to Klaus. “Our customers expect a certain – atmosphere and at times, we have asked your son to vacate the property. Now, this is the first time that his behavior has been outwardly violent to any of the staff so we-“

“ _Hardly_ violent,” Five scoffed. “There’s not a mark on you. If I was trying to hurt you than you would be hurt. As I _told_ you, I need-“

“Like I said to your son earlier,” Lance cut off, eyes filtering away from Five’s harsh scowl to where Klaus was sitting with his head tilted like he was in thought. “We cannot consent to handing over a key to a bathroom in renovation. The renovations started this morning and it would be a safety risk. If you could-“

“What about my _consent?_ ”

Lance blinked, “Excuse me?”

“Who gave you permission…” Klaus started, letting his voice wobble off into something emotional as he leaned forward. “Who gave you permission to lay your hands on my _son_?”

Five and Lance asked at the same time, “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I didn’t touch your son.”

“ _Oh_ , really?” Klaus asked as he stood up. “Then how did he get that busted lip then?”

“He doesn’t have-“

Five should have seen it coming.

All lines of conversation were quickly verging to one point, but it still caught him off guard when Klaus reared back his hand and punched him suddenly. There was a weight behind the right hook, a purpose as his head snapped to the side and he falter back a step.

He could feel the cut on his bottom lip reopen, and he smiled.

Klaus laughed something a little breathy as he shook out his hand, but the amusement died a cold death on his lips. He leaned over the table, those chipped black fingernails pressed flat against the surface as he towered over Lance.

“I want it.” Klaus’ blue eyes were panic, piercing like a knife. His voice was demanding, hurried, a sing-song, “I want it. The key, please…. _now.”_

Lance looked horrified and Five felt _mystified._

There was a pulsing that ricocheted from his bottom lip into the hollow of his cheek, dripping like caffeine into his soul. Five was _awake_ for the first time in a long time and his heart was charged. It shook inside of him, spreading like a spearminted warmth down his arms and into his fingertips.

This could _work_.

Klaus could work.

Lance uttered, “You’re crazy.”

It was an understatement, Five wanted to breathe. He wanted to _laugh_.

Klaus’ voice dropped an octave out of crazy into something calculated, “You’ve got no idea.”

Five watched Klaus’ eyes flicker over the room with a purpose that he was just now starting to put together. There was calculation in the smallest flicker of a smile on Klaus’ face. There was a _plan_ when Klaus leaned off the table, dropping into his chair and then slamming his head into the corner of the table with force.

The action split open his forehead and he gasped, “Oh _god_ , that hurt!”

“I’m calling security,” Lance threatened meaninglessly, blinking out of his stupefied horror and fumbling for the phone. He gasped when the phone was yanked out of his hand, “What are you doing?”

“There’s been an assault,” Klaus whined into the phone, voice wet and distressed even as his mouth tilted into a manic grin. His big wide eyes staying on Lance as his whiny tone turned into a ridiculous cry, “We _need_ security, there’s been an assault in Mr. Biggs office. We need security now. NOW!”

Klaus slammed the phone back into its receiver and dropped his act completely. He was a picture of control in the room as he leaned back into his chair, hands crossed at his knee, “That key, we’d like it now.”

“I’m not – I’m not giving you the key,” Lance stated, pushing back his chair as he stood up. His hands fluttered at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them, “This act won’t work. You can’t blackmail me, the cameras will show-“

“I believe that you’re having a problem with your security system right now,” Five reminded dully, letting the words sound flat and bored even as his heart thumped painfully in his chest. He crossed his hands behind his back, digging his fingernails into his palms as things started to _finally_ fall into place. “It would be your word against ours, and the customer is always right. Correct?”

Five licked absently at his busted lip, “Your only choice is to give me the key.”

Lance shot him the accusing look of an animal stuck in a corner and Five could not fault him for it. They were in the midst of events that even he had not seen coming and it would be the mark of an incredibly dull idiot to not at least _suspect_ that Five might have had something to do with those split wires and the whole security system going down in the middle of last night.

Though not terribly dull, Lance was still an idiot if he thought that he had an out from this. He was short sighted, a small-picture kind of guy because the next words out of his stupid slack mouth was, “You are not getting that key.”

“No, no, here is what’s going to happen,” Klaus waved off casually. “Two security guards are going to bust through that door. They’re going to see my _adorable_ baby boy bleeding and they’re going to see me, hurt. That’s going to look really bad for you.”

“They’re going to start to wonder what the hell happened here,” He continued. “And we’re going to tell them that you snapped. You snapped, and you’re going to say _what_? That I beat up my kid and then myself? That’s crazy talk.”

“What’s not crazy is that this annoying kid that’s a real pain in the _ass_ ,” Klaus waved a hand in Five’s direction. “He’s here in this store every day. He never buys anything. He’s _rude_ , doesn’t respect your authority, got a little handsy today. You snapped. You beat the shit out of him and his dear ol’ dad unless…”

Klaus’ grin was back, and his voice was almost inviting with how much it gave only one option, “Unless you give us that key.”

“You’re – you’re a real sick bastard.”

Klaus smiled.

“ _Thank you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late and half a chapter short!
> 
> This chapter wasn't supposed to end here but I started a new job recently so I don't have as much time to write.


	13. Lucky Latchkey Life

Chapter 13

Lucky Latchkey Life

Five managed a smile.

He managed to scrape up enough effort from the bottom of the empty reservoir inside of him. He managed to turn exhaustion into effort, into energy, into enough bullshit patience to curl his mouth into some semblance of a grin. It was all so pointless and dumb, and fucking _trivial_ in the dullest senses of formality.

It was almost mechanical the way that his mouth worked. It was a force of wills, a fight against gravity, a brainteaser on how to work his own fucking mouth because he didn’t _want_ to smile. He didn’t _want_ to play nice in the final round.

He didn’t want to _be_ here anymore.

All he wanted – no. _No_. All he _needed_ was the key to the bathroom so that he could leave Klaus, and Diego, and the whole damn city behind. But no.

No.

Of course not.

He was stuck in this stalemate of stale smiles and way too many fucking teeth, moving at a half speed so slow that it felt like he was suffocating above water. After a while, a smile was just a smile, and after too long, it meant something sinister.

They were grimacing pointless politeness to each other while not quite letting go of the cards that they still had to play. It was verbal poker. It was Texas Hold ‘Em in nonverbal cues. There was a tension building up to a point because Klaus _was_ crazy, and Five was feral, but despite every lie and story that could weave, Lance truly did hold the last card.

Five was stuck playing nice, playing polite, playing this topsy-turvy game of power Jenga. He was stuck working a Rube Goldberg contraption of complex mental pullies from his brain to his mouth just to prop up the corners of his lips. It was expected of him to smile, to be grateful despite the fact that he had to fight just for the inch of give that he got.

It was a _kid_ thing.

Kids were always supposed to be grateful no matter how they got things. Kids were supposed to smile and say _thank you,_  and kids got what they wanted, but kids had to wait patiently for adults to get over themselves.

By all definition, Five was _not_ a kid.

He was technically a _teenager_ and only really in age, but teenager just meant kid in the eyes of some people.

He wasn’t a kid.

Orphans weren’t allowed to stay children for very long because kids got hurt and kids got crushed under rocks and choked on dust and needed _help_ that wouldn’t come. They got held and protected and loved and were supposed to be safe. Kids got what they wanted in the very end because kids got happy endings.

Five never got anything that he didn’t have to fight for.

Five didn’t even have a _name_.

He had calloused fingers on calloused hands and scars everywhere else. He had trauma on top of trauma written in brief therapy sessions. He had _nuns_ and he was _bleeding_. He had been attacked and shot at, and he had crawled his way out of hell through broken windows.

The walls pressed in close. His lungs burnt a claustrophobic fire. All he so desperately needed was that fucking key.

He was not a goddamn kid.

There was still blood beneath his fingernails, blood clotting on his bottom lip, blood seeping through his shirt, vest, jacket. It was all his and that only furthered his point.

Kids didn’t bleed this much without someone noticing.

“I’ll take the key,” Five drawled out through his split lip, through exhaustion and frustration, and a thin patience. His blood-tacky fingernails tapped against the table in time with the tick of the clock. “Now.”

Five was not a kid, but he looked like one.

Five was not a kid, but he had the face of one.

Five was not a kid, but he was not taken seriously like one.

The clock on the wall _ticked, ticked, ticked_ the seconds by as Lance B. – Floor Manager thought that he still had options to take back control. It _ticked, ticked, ticked_ as Lance gritted his teeth and crossed his arms, huffing. It _ticked, ticked, ticked_ as he took in a breath, took in his indignantly and his anger at being backed into a corner by a kid.

Time was crawling by like it was crawling over broken glass, and Five felt every cut on his skin. He felt it echoed in the hollow of his cheekbones, in the tired exhaustion draining blood inside of him. He was so close to the plan coming together, to the end, to the exit. He could taste open air on his tongue and he _needed_ it.

He was going to get it, one way or another.

He didn’t have the fucking patience for this anymore.

This stalemate was pointless. Card games were stupid, mental or otherwise, and the tension that was building was towering over. Five was going to cry.

“I’ll start crying,” He threatened, voice as cold as ice on a July summer day. It was melting quickly into something wet at the back of his throat and the corners of his eyes. He curled his shoulders in and sniffled, but his eyes stayed defiant. “I’ll cry right now, and I’ll tell a story so much worse than anything that Séance can come up with, Mr. Biggs. Those guards will be in here any minute now and I won’t just get you fired. I will ruin your goddamn life if you do not give me the key. Now.”

Five looked like absolute hell, worse since he walked into this room. Klaus was still bleeding from his forehead, silently watching from his chair with an amused grin, “Might want to listen to the kiddo, man.”

Five ignored him.

He didn’t take his eyes off Lance B. – Floor fucking Manager. He was bleeding all over with intensity and intention, and finally. _Finally,_ Lance broke his standoff with a sigh and the security guards came into the room.

One was a tall man with broad shoulders and blond hair stuck up under a hat that said ‘security,’ stepping into the room before assessing it. He moved the way that overeager soldiers moved, reacting before realizing what he was reacting too. He dropped his hand from his gun, “Sir?”

The guard that came in after him was slower in her movements – squared shoulders, cheap suit, caramel colored hair. She moved with a purpose, assessing the situation with a laser-focus and finding it not worth her time. Five could not fault her for that.

He let his eyes slide sideways off her back to Lance and the way that he crumbled under the delusion of his own power. He let his cards drop to the table, he folded. He pitched forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead against his fist, and Five managed to smile again.

There was an ease to the pulley system that wasn’t there before, something like satisfaction oiling the strings as everything started to slot into a place that he found manageable. Klaus waved off the security guards with a grand gesture, coming up with a believable story about tripping and hitting his head, “And poor Lance here, had such a fright at the sight of blood. We thought he might pass out.”

Five barely noticed anything beyond Lance’s defeated pinch to the bridge of his nose and his deep heavy sigh as Klaus said, “Luckily we’re not the type of people to sue.”

Five allowed himself to breathe just a little. He could almost have laughed when Lance had straightened his spine and snapped his fingers at the woman, “New girl.”

“Carol, sir.”

“Carol, yes. Get the first aid kit for Mr. Hargreeves.”

Five could squeeze warmth back into his fingertips when he had a purpose as meaningful as this. He could force himself to lean off the desk without feeling black-spotted and dizzy. He could ignore the aches and the pains in every movement because he _won_.

He picked the right horse this time.

He got the good cards. He got _first place._

So, he smiled.

He said, “We would really appreciate that.”

It was a misshapen little smile, stretched and misplaced on his face. It pulled at all his frayed ends and tangled them together in a knotted-up smile, but it was a smile because Klaus pulled through. It was an ever-polite presentation of teeth that backed a big man into a corner, and Five smiled gratefully, “I’m glad that we could come to an understanding, Mr. Biggs.”

“Mr. Katz,” Lance sighed, straightening up in the illusion of middle management power as he addressed the guard with blond hair. “Please give Mr. Hargreeves’ son the key to the restroom in the back and escort him there.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Hargreeves was my father, call me-“

“That won’t be necessary, I know the way,” Five said, dropping his smile into something severe as he held his hand out for the key. “ _No,_ thank you.”

“Sir, that bathroom is under-“

“You have five minutes in there,” Lance sighed, turning back to his guards and telling them, “Tell the construction workers to take their next break. It’s not a request. Radio that to them. And Carol, where is that first aid kit?”

“On it, sir.”

Five smiled.

It felt almost surreal.

After so long of so many things going wrong, the key felt like a finality in his hand. It was a conclusion, a dream come to fruition. It was heavy like implication, like doors opening up for him and relief because he was moving forward. The end was weighty and heavy, and triumphantly _there_ within his reaches.

Five was standing at the cusp of a new age, one where he could breathe, and the walls were distant, and things went right. Klaus had called for him to wait a second, but Carol was back with the first aid kid and Katz wanted her to watch how to patch up customers if needed. Five didn’t wait.

Klaus didn’t even notice, too busy asking the guard, “So, you said that your name was Dave, right? Dave Katz, that’s a nice name. Do you like to dance?”

Five kept his fingers looped around the key tight.

He kept it close to his chest as he walked to the back of the store once more. He followed the same path and walked, and walked, and walked until he met the plain backwall again. He walked, and walked, and walked with his heart low in his chest and his blood pumping, and an air of anticipation buzzing inside of his bones.

This was what he wanted.

This was what he was getting.

A plan complete. An end in sight.

It wasn’t ideal. It was messy as all fucking hell, and he was going to have to forget his duffle bag. He was going to have to drop everything and run, forget Diego and his thieving hands, forget the doughnut shop, forget the masks and the guns. He was going to have to leave the city.

He was going to break the city limits and lay low just to be able to _breathe_. He just had to get one thing before he could do that.

Five slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open. He let it bounce on its hinges and close behind him as he stepped into the small windowless room. It pitched into a single-bulbed darkness, throwing shadows on every wall.

Five breathed out, “Okay.”

He took in a breath that tasted stale and chalky, took in the room for what it was worth, and he assessed his plan.

The inside of the bathroom was small, picking at his claustrophobia like a needle beneath the skin but he pushed the thought down. The single exposed light fixture above him casted the three stalls on the right and the sinks on the left into darkness. It left the room in an almost eerie state of demolition.

The piping under the sinks were gone. Two of the three stalls doors were taken off already and discarded in the corner. There was a layer of dust that permeated the air and crawled into his mouth, and a portion of the floor tiles had been ripped up. Five let his gaze linger around the room and wrinkled his nose.

He took in a dusty breath and held it for a second before letting it go, watching his shadowed reflection in the mirror as he repeated the action. He was _here_ , not anywhere else. It was dark because the lights were off. It was dusty because of the work. The room had solid walls and high ceilings, and he only had five minutes.

He took another breath.

He let his hands brush down his rumbled damp jacket and pushed it back. Even in the dim light, he could see the red that had seeped almost black through his vest, “Shit.”

His actions were careful but hurried as he pulled up his vest and his collared shirt to the swollen skin and the broken stitches beneath. The wound was still seeping blood but most of it had dried and clotted, radiating a warmth that foretold a possible infection. Five swore again, squeezing his eyes shut as he rolled back down his shirt.

He didn’t have time.

He buttoned his jacket and told himself, “Deal with it later.”

He told himself, “Forget the bag, drop everything. Run.”

He told himself, “You have five minutes.”

When he opened his eyes again, all he could see was his own pale face and his sunken hollow eyes. His hair was a mess like he never kept it, his uniform unkept. He felt _gross_ , but he pushed it all down and told himself that he had a job to do.

He lost his duffle bag and his whole life that was packed inside of it. He lost his room at the orphanage to gun violence. He lost a lot of blood and he was going to lose Delores too. There was no getting to her with his duffle bag gone and a target on his back.

 _I’m sorry,_ he wanted to tell her. _I know that you’d understand, but I’m so sorry._

He had to go.

Delores was the smartest person that he had ever met, and he knew that she would understand. It wasn’t abandonment, it was about survival. He was a danger to her, he was _in_ danger. He would try to come back for her eventually, but – but everything was so _big_ and _a lot_ , and if he was honest with himself, he was so out of him depth.

There was no way to really articulate the fear that rolled inside of him. He could place himself in the shoes of all those comic book characters, but Diego outlived the monster that had adopted him and broke him. Five just wanted the chance to be able to breathe, so he had to lose everything that he had to do it.

He’d lost everything before.

_But not Delores. Never Delores._

_Shut up,_ he scolded himself mentally.

The pain in his chest was blossoming into something barbed at the edges, catching on the corners of his plans and tearing into them because _no._ He had to force himself to move forward because if he thought about leaving her behind than he would never move again.

He didn’t want to leave without her. He vowed to her unhearing ears as he moved into the last stall, “I’ll come back for you, Delores.”

He vowed, “I’ll figure out what to do next and I will come back.”

He could hear her voice like velvet and marshmallow peanut butter sandwiches in the corners of his mind, washing over like a blanket. She was there like she was always there, _you must take care of yourself. You must help yourself. Be careful, Five._

_I love you._

Delores was smarter than he would ever be, and he knew that. HE could admit that in this empty room and this empty stall. He could admit it in the same way that he knew that he _could_ live without her, without his duffle bag, without his plans, but he didn’t want to.

Five blinked back the heat behind his eyes.

He swallowed down the wetness choking up his throat.

He got to work.

Five knelt onto the dirty floor next to the toilet, feeling the grainy press of broken tiles digging into the bandages on his knee. He ignored the pain as he wedged himself closer to the vent at the back of the stall.

It was a boxy stretch of ventilation, square with four screws holding it in place. Five ignored the way that the skin on his fingertips snagged and tore as he worked all four of the screws out of place and dislodged the vent.

He smiled a little to himself as he reached inside and pulled out a blood splattered briefcase. He laughed a little, surprised that it was still there honestly.

The briefcase had been nothing but surprises.

It had been a topic of conversation when the man at the diner had let it slip that it was a very powerful leveraging chip right before his head got blown off. It had been a snap decision to grab the case and run into the back. It had been a calculated decision to wedge the thing into the ceiling tiles at the doughnut shop and a calculated decision to go back for it when he was attacked. It had made sense to hide it in Grimbel’s because Grimbel’s was a safe place.

And it was _here_.

And now, Five could leave.

He took a breath and he laughed a little more, unbelieving.

The laughed died on his lips when he heard the bathroom door open and close again. He sighed and he rolled his eyes, calling through the stall door, “I do not need you anymore, Séance. Leave.”

The footsteps came a little closer and Five sighed louder. He unsnapped the clasps on the briefcase, reaching into the pocket where the man said he kept extra money. He tossed out a little role of twenties, “Here, I paid you in abundance. _Go_.”

“Klaus, I told you-“ Five snapped when a hand rested heavy on his shoulder as he snapped the briefcase closed. He turned his head to glare at the hand with an insult on the tip of his tongue, but it all died a quiet death.

There was a bite mark on the hand.

Thick fingers curling into the fabric and the imprint of teeth in the flesh. Five felt very cold, very suddenly. His eyes traced the bite mark up the dark fabric of a cheap suit to that of a metal mask.

There were only two works spoken, muffled, “Times up.”


	14. Everybody Should Stop Doing Everything

_Run._

It was a thought in his head like a scream and a demand, and nothing that could be followed. It was a thought in his head like his feet hitting broken tile, hitting broken pavement, hitting the tarmac of the road and never stopping, never moving, rooted to the floor. It was a thought, and it was a thought, and it was a thought, and it was –

_Run. Boy. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run –_

“Remove your hand from my shoulder.”

There was a sound in his ears like wind rushing through a tunnel, a loud wisp of something distant from this moment, from the stagnant stale air of the bathroom, from the hand immoveable on his shoulder and the cold metal mask on the man’s head – _Hazel._ There was a sound like blood clotting in his ear canal, like the indistinct _pop_ of a distant explosion and the held-breath second before the ground crumbled beneath his feet and a building fell onto his head.

And, there was a hand.

There was _the_ hand on his shoulder, bitten bloody by desperate teeth and left unbandaged, and there was the hand in his mind that blinked to life between the moments of a here and an unforgettable _there_ – pale and feminine, twitching in the wreckage that he was no longer stuck in.

There was sunlight through the cracks in a concrete cave-in and he had worked so _hard_ just to have that. There was dust in the air and rays of heat warming the side of his face, and he was bleeding. He was bleeding a lot, and it _hurt_.

He had an unobstructed view of that hand. He was closed enough to hear its owner’s pleads for help, for _honey_ , for anybody. _There’s someone here._  

Red fingernails were cracked and broken, sometimes straight down the middle and into the cuticle, from crawling the way that he had crawled through debris, from scraping at rocks with bare hands and digging out a little place in the ruin just to _breathe_ , to shout, to fight for a little salvation in sunlight and fresh air.

There was the hand and his own cracked voice responding to its pleads when she called out his name echoing inside in his ears, breaking soft and scared, _I’m stuck. I’m stuck and I can’t move, and it hurts. I can’t get out. I can’t – I don’t know. I don’t know what to do._

There was that hand and her muffled soft voice through the rocks like a comfort, like a _home_ , telling him that he needed to take a breath, that it was okay not to have the answers, asking, _are you hurt, honey? I need you to keep talking to me, okay, honey? Can you do that? Five?_

There was the hand and her calls and all the ways that he could not respond to her, could not breathe, could not think passed the panic to say that he could be okay. There was blood in his eyes and there was blood in the palm of her hand, pooling against the pain in her voice. She was hurt and there was dirt underneath her fingernails like there never was, and there were the boots.

Brand new. Never worn.

It was a cold wash of a repressed memory, chilling over his bones like an acid that ate away his armor. He remembered it in flashes the way that he had remembered going to the bank, remembered the blonde woman that had held his hand, remembered chatting happily with her about starting third grade at a new school. He remembered it the way that he remembered the explosion and the building falling, and the rocks.

He remembered the hand and the woman that it had belonged to, remembered that he had called her Maggie even though she hadn’t always been called Maggie. He remembered the boots and the pant leg of a pristine navy suit as they approached on the uneven terrain. He remembered the sound that a leather briefcase made when it was sat on the ground, remembered the way that it had casted a shadow inside of the whole he was stuck in, obscuring the sunlight and the view of Maggie’s hand.

He remembered the sirens off in the distance and the complain of the man with the case as he had moved rocks around from Maggie with gloved hands. He remembered the way that he held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut when the rocks would shift with the movement. He remembered the fear that it would all collapse on top of him.

He never said a word.

He just listened as Maggie was unearthed.

He remembered her relief, her rambling about family, about injury, and the way that she stopped when the man said in a dull rumble, _‘By request of The Handler, your contract has been terminated.’_

He remembered, _‘I’m sure that you know exactly why.’_

He remembered the tremble of the rocks, the solid feet on the ground. He remembered the way that Maggie, who was strong and smart, and quick-witted and clever, had started to beg. She said that she had a family now. She said, _please._

And he remembered the other woman’s voice, somewhere out of his view, ‘ _Stop fucking around, Hazel. Put a bullet in her head.’_

He remembered the shot.

He remembered Maggie’s hand, her voice, the way that she talked about finalizing adoption plans and painting bedroom walls any color that he wanted, and he remembered how she looked when she was dead. He remembered the twitching of her hand that had stopped, remembered her big brown dead eyes staring at him and the way that dust and blood had clung to her face. They didn’t cover her back up.

They didn’t even _hide_ what they did.

Five’s voice came out low and numb as he stared at the impersonal mask of a killer, “Don’t touch me.”

 _Run_.

Five wasn’t scared.

There was an emotion that was far more powerful than that running through his system. There was something bubbling somewhere deep inside of him, molding vengeance into claws and guns, and the sharp-edged point of a hundred knives. And it gutted him. It bled him until he was cold, belaying itself in the blood-gurgled gasp beneath his breastbone, in the tingle of his fingertips and the blue of his lips. It made him cold. It made him calm.

The bathroom stall was small.

The room was small.

Hazel’s hand was still on his shoulder, but Five had a name to the faceless. He had a name that tasted bitter like almonds, like cyanide in the bloodstream. His fingernails were blunt against his jacket lapel, not quite holding on but not letting go. It was a metaphorical restraint to a larger issue.

His presence was large in the small room, the small stall, pressing up against Five’s back and eclipsing the sole light source with his metallic head. Five curled his hands around the briefcase’s handle, holding it tighter. _She_ always had a briefcase, too.

She had one that day in the bank.

Hazel and the woman, _Cha-Cha,_ he assumed, remembering the name said when he was attacked in his room, had taken their time to dig Maggie’s briefcase out of the rubble before they had disappeared. Five had watched them. He had listened to their complaints about grunt work, about blood on their hands, about the Commission.

The briefcase was important.

He blinked.

He took a breath.

He said the words that Maggie had said through the rocks after she had said _help,_ and _please,_ and _no, no, no,_ but his voice wasn’t like Maggie’s on that day. It wasn’t dead. It wasn’t panic. His voice sat low in his chest. It held the cards to this game, held the briefcase, “I am sure that we can come to some kind of understanding.”

“Is that what you think?”

It sounded nearly like he was smiling. It sounded like he hated his fucking guts.

“I _think_ that it is the only option that you got,” Five replied, steady, cool. His knuckles white around the briefcase. Hazel’s voice lost an edge being muffled through a mask, but Five made a point of keeping his voice firm and professional, measured and controlled. He spoke in a way that clearly said, _I have what you want so you better listen to me._ That said, _I’m in control of this situation and you need me._ He spoke and he said, “You’ve already failed to kill me twice. I don’t think failing a third time is going to win you any favors with anybody at the – the Commission.”

The word felt unnaturally heavy on his tongue, like it held too much meaning and he didn’t have the time or the knowledge to figure out what it really was. He’d only ever heard Maggie say it once on the phone, but the man at the doughnut shop had said it too. Hazel’s shoulders stiffened and his grip tightened for a second before Five continued, “Now, if you would like to keep that hand, get it off my shoulder.”

“Elaborate, kid,” He demanded. “What do you know about the Commission?”

“I’m not a kid.”

The bathroom was not a large room and Hazel was not a patient man, but Five categorized everything that was important about both of them. The room was dim. There were broke tiles on the floor and the stalls were missing doors. There was dripping water and exposed piping, and only an exposed lightbulb lighting the room. There weren’t windows. The only exit was the door.

Hazel was a tall man.

He loomed, towering over Five. He had big meaty hands and pale skin, and the mask he wore was bulky and creepy. He was a force that was demanded attention, taking up the width of the bathroom stall with his broad shoulders and large stance, and he had a gun. He favored his left leg, gun. His hand rested on his hip, gun.

A gun in a tight space wasn’t a weapon, it was a liability.

They both knew it.

Five wouldn’t be able to get around him to get out of the stall door and the possibility of going in between his legs had a failure rate too high to try, but it wasn’t about getting away. Not right now anyways.

The most important thing right now was to keep Hazel away from what he wanted – the briefcase. The most important thing was to keep Hazel thinking that despite having the height and the gun, he didn’t have a leg to stand on.

“Is the mask really necessary, _Hazel?_ ” He asked defiantly to the distorted image of his own face in the painted metal’s reflection. “We’ve made each other bleed, I know your name. We can drop the pretenses.”

The mask tilted down, but it wasn’t removed.

Five wasn’t expecting it to be.

Hazel’s voice came out muffled again, sticking his hand out and demanding, “Give me the briefcase, kid, and I won’t kill you.”

“Well,” Five drawled. “We both know that’s not true.”

He took a breath, and everything slowed to this moment. Everything stood still in the space of his heart’s fast beat, and he didn’t have time to think strategically anymore. So, he reacted. So, he struck out hard with the edge of the briefcase.

He caught Hazel first in the side of the knee with the hard-pointed edge of the case and then in the chest when his knees buckled underneath him. He swung up with the case, hitting his jaw so his back fell against the rickety frame of the stall, and then he dropped the case. He kicked it into the next stall and tried to follow.

There was a hand on his shoulder, curling into his jacket and pulling him back, but Five didn’t give Hazel a chance for a better grip. He shoved at him, balling his hands into fists and swinging hard for his throat.

Hazel’s movements were professional. They spoke of experience and training, but not of use. He was rusty and slow to react sometimes, like he was always a half-step behind Five. He reared back to dodge the punch to his throat, but caught it in his shoulder instead.

Five pushed and he kicked.

He fought back in a small space, but Five was a kid.

He lacked experience.

He got the moment he needed and dropped to the floor to crawl into the next stall, but Hazel was bigger than him. Hazel was stronger. He was only a half-step back, grabbing Five’s ankle and _pulling_. It didn’t matter how hard Five kicked, how deep he dug his fingernails into the flesh of Hazel’s ankle. It didn’t _matter_.

Hazel pulled Five to his feet. He rounded a fist into the side of Five’s head and it caused him to stagger backwards,  grabbing at the smooth sides of the stall for something to hold onto and never finding it. He was grabbed by the lapels of his jacket before he managed to slip to the floor completely. He was hauled back onto his feet and Hazel’s voice came out frustrated, growling. 

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a threat.

It was a man that had been chasing down a kid to get something for his boss, and Five understood it. The man at the diner was dead. Maggie was dead. Hazel could die if he screwed up, because he – they _all_ aligned themselves with – with _The Commission,_ with _The Handler._

They killed Maggie. They killed those people in the bank, in the doughnut shop.

“Stop fighting,” Hazel told him, shook him. “Stop fucking fighting.”

Five’s vision swam and he almost said _okay._ He almost said, _I’m really tired._ He almost said, _it’s not fair. I’m just thirteen._ He breathed out heavy and it tasted like there was blood in his mouth, in his teeth, and his head fell forward.

Hazel’s hand moved from his lapel.

They itched up his dirty uniform, over his ruined collar. They wrapped around his neck, pressed into the cut there and tightened. And tightened. And tighten.

And _pop_.

It wasn’t the tiny explosion of bombs planted underground. It wasn’t the indistinct _pop_ of _something_ and the crumble of the world around it. It _rung_. It _shattered_ in the ear like the _pop_ of an eardrum, like the pull of a trigger.

In Five’s hand, was the pistol from Hazel’s ankle holster.

Hazel staggered back.

The metal of his mask clinging unheard against the frame, unseeing painted eyes smiling at Five’s pale face, at his wide eyes and his labored breath, at his finger still on the trigger and the gun aimed just to the left of Hazel’s head.

His voice was muffled over the ringing, “Hey, kid. Don’t.”

His voice was practically a dream, “Give me the gun.”

His voice, _I’m sure you know why._

His voice, _elaborate._

His voice, _stop fighting._

Five shook his head.

He was shaking. He could feel it rattling in his bones, turning him to dust. He was bleeding, he could feel that too. He could feel the snap of stitches, the heat of reopened cuts. He could feel his heart _pounding._

He took a breath, and a breath, and a breath.

He did not lower the gun.

For a moment, nothing happened.

In a perfect world, the police would show up now. In a perfect world, security would come busting in and Hazel would go to jail, and Five would go to a hospital, and Maggie would have adopted him. In a perfect world, he didn’t have to _drop everything, run._

But the world was not perfect.

Not for him.

They took breath, and breath, and breath. In and out. In and out. In and out, and Hazel lunged forward. He grabbed his wrist and Five pulled the trigger on instinct, adding another hole into the ceiling.

He _woke up_.

He didn’t let go of the gun.

He screamed and he kicked. He was not big, but he was mighty. He was a _survivor_ and he was not going down without a fight. He pushed, and pushed, and they stumbled out of the stall. He pushed, and pushed, until Hazel lost his footing on the broken tile and fell.

He planted his feet and he aimed the gun, and he spat, “Don’t fucking _touch_ me.”

His mind screamed, _run_.

His mind screeched, _run._

His mind begged, _stop._

Five was breathing hard.

He was bleeding from his side and he could _feel_ every fucking stitch that had pulled, and pulled, and snapped. He was dizzy and breathless. His ears were ringing, and fingers hurt. His mind was screaming so many things and his hands were shaking, but he pointed the gun.

“Whoa, kid,” Hazel said, masked skewed and suit dirty. He held his hands up, talking like he suddenly had the upper hand on the wrong side of the gun. “Think about this, kid. Think about what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Five’s hands were shaking and his jaw quivering. He was bleeding. He could feel it like _waves_ , like the sweat tripping down his back and blood down his side. He gritted his teeth because he _had_ no choice, because he had the gun and the upper hand, and because he _knew_ that as soon as everybody heard the first shot that the store cleared out.

It was just him and a murderer.

“Do you?” Hazel taunted, advancing slowly onto his feet. He fixed his tie, smirking beneath the mask. “Do you know what happens when you shoot someone? It’s not like the movies, not just blood. There’s bone, _meat_. They don’t die immediately.”

“Don’t come closer.”

“You’re just a kid,” Hazel said, hands still up as he took a step forward. “I don’t want to have to kill a kid.”

The gun didn’t waver and neither did Five’s voice, “I’m not a kid.”

“You’re not going to do it,” He practically taunted, growing tired of playing _nice_ assassin. He took another step forward and then another, and Five retreated.

He took a step back and another. He demanded from Hazel, “Don’t come closer.”

“You’re not going to do it,” Hazel stated. “You won’t shoot me. We both know that I’m right, so-“

Five’s back bumped the frame of the stall, the gun wavering in his hand. His eyes darted up at the mask, at his dark reflection inside of it. He steadied his feet on the ground, and he took a breath, “I don’t need a gun to beat you.”

He took a breath and then took aim.

He pulled the trigger.

To the left of Hazel’s head, Five fired.

The lightbulb exploded.

They were pitched into darkness and Five moved quick as Hazel lunged forward. He ducked down and rolled into the stall that he had tossed the briefcase, grabbing it.

Hazel had the same idea, barreling into the stall, but Five anticipated that. He moved quickly, rolling into the next stall and running. He pressed his hand against the wall, following it quickly until he felt the handle to the door.

He flipped the lock and swung it open.

The light was blinding when he stumbled into it and his leaden feet stumbled to the end of the hallway before giving out. He stumbled against the large white back wall, pressing against it and breathing. He dropped the gun from his shaky hands and rubbed his face.

His fingertips came back red.

“Shit,” He breathed out, noticing the splotchy red imprint that he left against the wall. He was bleeding through his jacket. He let his eyes close for a second before they snapped open at the sound of gunfire too close.

He saw the three bullet holes embedded into the wall next to him, coming from a direction that was not Hazel stumbling out of the bathroom. He ducked, swearing, “Shit.”

_Run._

 

 

 


	15. A Short Space in Time

 

_No._

It started with _no_ , in the aftermath of sun-soaked warmth and the tightness of blood dry on his hands, he could pinpoint the moment. He could follow the bloody footprints back to Grimble’s glass storefront in the distance, to the kid’s scribbled on walls scratching up the inside of his mind, to the incomplete picture, and a calloused hand over his calloused hand inside of a car, squeezing. Saying, “No.”

His hand was thrown away.

Eudora sighed like it was something that carved out an annoyed little space inside of the tension filled car ride, like it was draining out an emptiness in the wake of her words. It was an olive branch, but it was barbed, “What did I tell you about touching my radio?”

She had distinctly told him on numerous occasions _not_ to. She’d said _no,_ and _don’t,_ and _I will literally tase your dumbass into next week, Hargreeves. I’m not even joking,_ but he didn’t mention any of that because he never mentioned it. He never gave her an answer, just a smile.

So, he smiled.

She had left a void behind her words, left him with the opportunity to fill the space with some needed relief, with a narrative all his own. It was reminiscent of a dream, this moment like so many passing moments from before things got complicated between them. So, he smiled.

He shook the lingering feeling of her calloused touch out of his stiff wrist and rubbed at his bruised knuckles. He looked at her and tilted his head, swearing like old times, “Damn, Patch. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Don’t touch my radio.”

Diego could linger. He could allow himself to laugh and to fall back into those warmth days where everything was exactly like this, but the circumstances were different. The walls built up between them were different walls because they were different.

He was so young and fresh out of the academy. He was riding shotgun while Eudora was complaining that their SO gave them ticket duty because Diego had pissed him off again. He was all smile and soft condescending words, leaning forward and reminding her that it wasn’t him that put hot sauce in their SO’s coffee

Eudora doesn’t complain about the music on the radio because he never turned any on, but the younger him had and the younger Eudora complained that it was too loud. She complained that he skipped the good stations, that they shouldn’t even _be_ playing music, _dumbass._

“Let’s play Fuck the Police and turn it up all the way,” Young him had suggested.

Young Eudora snapped at him for not taking the job seriously.

They were six months out of the academy – she had graduated top of their class and he was right behind her – and he already had an occurrence written up about him.

He had been so young and cocksure, so ready to prove something to the world, and her, and his father who didn’t even come to graduation. They had both been that way, they were both _still_ that way, and young Eudora was saying, “You’re going to get yourself fired.”

And Adult Eudora was saying, “You’re going to get yourself fired, D.”

The moment faded too fast, like a culture shock.

He thought about the kid’s room shot to pieces, about the kid’s voice breathy on the phone and the kid standing in his kitchen bleeding, saying that he had experienced worse before. He thought about the gunfire crackling over the radio and how the color had drained out of Eudora’s face, about the report on the radio of the ambulance getting there too late before she had turned it off. He thought about the words written throughout those comic books again – _inside job, need to know more, obvious double agent._

He thought about all the times that Eudora had sighed at him, had given him this opportunity only for him to disappoint her with honesty. How many times did she say to him that life wasn’t a comic book? How many times did she tell him with his rubber mask crushed in her fist that this needed to stop, that he was going to get himself killed?

She had sighed.

And he had sighed too.

He let the emptiness she created linger between them.

He knew that he should tell her that the kid wasn’t in danger and that they didn’t need to waste time trying to find him in a department store. He should tell her that he didn’t have a choice in staying out of this case when the case called him up in the middle of the night needing somewhere safe, and that he had made the wrong decision not to call her.

He _knew_ that.

He knew that it was wrong, but he had been – he had freaked out seeing the kid pale and bruised on that bench, hearing him talk about how he’d had it so much worse before because Diego remembered doing the same. He remembered trying to justify the bullshit that you’ve been through just to be able to breathe, and it – he didn’t like being confronted with it.

He should tell her that he saw himself inside of the kid and it scared him.

He should tell her that he didn’t know what to do so he fell back on what he was always supposed to do, go back to the manor.

He should tell her, but he didn’t say anything.

He let the words fall back into his mouth because he was selfish.

This felt too much like old times to ruin it. It was like they’d just made detective at the same time and they were being overcompetitive about stupid shit. It felt like denying an attraction and a connect that was palpable between them, and letting it grow healthy.

Eudora extended an olive branch, but all he had to give in return were false pretenses.

He _should_ tell her.

There was a part of him that was sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, that wanted to be the best and solve the case first, watching as Grimble’s came closer and closer with every stoplight they got stuck at. There was a part of him that held all the cards and wanted to keep it that way because he had Eudora right here.

He had her in her fiery glory. There was always going to be a part of him that wanted the things that he couldn’t have back, that wanted to be allowed back inside even after he had messed up so much.

He wanted Eudora like when it was a simple attraction and a budding partnership, when it was a simple love. He wanted to go back to before the kid, before all the talks about moving in together and starting a family. This was as close as he might ever get, but it was wrong.

He was going to tell her, he decided.

He opened his mouth and he was going to say, _I know where the kid is._ He was going to say, _this is all much stranger and so much bigger than either of us are prepared for._ He was going to say, _what are the odds that as soon as we know the locating of one of the kid’s hangouts that it got shot up?_

“I was just trying to turn on the scanner,” He said instead, settling back into his seat with his arms drawn in close. All those words dying in his mouth at the heated glare that he got in return. “You turned it off, remember?”

He had an incomplete picture of this situation, of what the kid had gotten trapped in. The trip to Grimble’s might shed some light onto who this kid was and hopefully he could put everything in order before he gave her the big picture. He _would_ tell her, after this.

“You don’t need the scanner on.”

“Considering that two officers were just shot-“

“You’re on _leave_ ,” She snapped at him, harder than necessary for a point that had been repeatedly made. She didn’t look regretful about it. “You’re not responding to anything and if _I_ respond to something than you sure as hell can bet that I’ll leave your ass on the street. Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in if Keely finds out that you were at a crime scene? That you jumped into my car when I’m trying to do my job? You could _lose_ your job, Diego.”

“The scanner is supposed to be _on_ at all times, Patch.”

She breathed out frustrated.

She practically hissed through her teeth, _in one ear and out the other,_ as her fingers curled so tight around the steering wheel that they went white for a second. They both knew it. They both knew that Diego didn’t change, and he didn’t stop.

Diego never looked further than what was in front of him. He never looked passed the goal or the case that was closest to him until it was over until the consequences got too big to ignore. It was what made him a good detective. He got the job done.

Eudora sighed and sounded very much like she was trying not to sink a knife into a fresh wound but was going to do it anyways. Diego knew what she was going to say before she said it, but he still felt the cut deep inside him, “Losing your job won’t bring back Ben.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not on the case, Diego,” She stated, staring ahead like he was staring ahead over the traffic as Grimble’s glass storefront came closer. “There are _so_ many reasons on why that is. Your father just died, and I know that you didn’t have a good relationship with him, but something like that effects people. It affects you. The first thing you did was put on a mask and go beat up civilians.”

“I-“

“And then you showed up at a crime scene after being told to take a break,” She continued, picking up momentum. “And there is a kid that’s dressed like your brother that you nearly _stabbed_. He’s from the same orphanage as Ben and he’s in trouble, I understand that you want to protect him.”

“It’s our _job_ to protect-“

She sighed, twisting the knife in deeper with a pointed soft voice, “I know that when you look at him, you see Ben. You think that this time will be different because you will do whatever it takes, but it’s going to get you fired, Diego. It’s going to get you killed and that is why you’re not on this case. He isn’t Ben, it’s not your responsibility to figure this all out.”

“The kid is nothing like Ben,” He said stubbornly, words grinding out between his teeth.

“You want to protect him like you wanted to protect Ben,” She stated, putting the car in park outside the department store. She let the motor idle, turning to him with harsh words. “You said so yourself. The first time you saw him, you thought he was Ben, but you’re doing it _wrong_.”

“Ben died in that nightclub because you were out wearing a mask,” She continued harshly. “And what are you doing now? You’re breaking the same rules, wearing that stupid fucking mask, and the only think you’re going to do is get yourself killed because you’re reckless.”

“And what are you?” He snapped, pulling the knife out of his wounds with an anger that boiled inside of him, that destroyed the moon, and himself, and the world. How fucking _dare_ she.

How dare anybody bring up that night, bring up Ben like that.

He thrusted the proverbial knife back at her, sinking it into her chest, “You’re going to try to play therapist for me when you’re doing the exact same reckless shit? Two officers were just _shot_ , Eudora. They were killed, like the six people at Griddy’s and you’re here _alone._  I’m not on this case, _fine_. Who’s your backup?”

He had the kid.

He knew the kid was safe back at the manor. He knew more about what was going on than anybody on the damn force and he didn’t even have to _try_ that hard. He wasn’t going to sit here and be psychoanalyzed because Five _called_ him. Five came to _him_ , and no one else.

It meant something.

The kid was safe because Diego made him safe.

“Diego.”

“No. _No_. It’s just rich coming from you,” He said, words cutting on the way out of his mouth, too sharp to hold onto them. He was shredding away lingering memories and lingering hope because this was never going to fucking work.

He threw open the door and she threw open her door, glaring at him over the hood when he stated, “You’re supposed to have a _partner_ , Patch. Who has your six when I’m not here? You’re not _Spaceboy._ You’re not invincible.”

“I don’t need back up for routine questions.”

“You tell me to follow procedure, but here you are, running off after a lead with no back up. Who knows you’re here? Who honestly knows? Me? Beaman?” He demanded, voice taking on an almost mocking tone when he repeated all the same things that she used to say to him, “You’re going to get yourself killed going after things alone like this.”

“And you’re going to lose your job,” She told him plainly. “And then what will you have?”

_Because it won’t be me._

She doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t have to. It’s the clearest goddamn thing in the world right now. It hung between them like crystal, like the sharpest edge of a knife, and they breathed.

They stared at each other and they _got_ it.

It was never going to fucking work between them.

They were too much alike, just at opposite ends of the same spectrum and this problem would always be there. There was no going back when everything was laid open and bleeding, so they starred at each other and they let that realization wash over them slowly, let it soak them.

And then both their heads turned towards Grimble’s glass store front. _Pop._

There was a breath and then another ‘pop,’ before people were pouring out of the store, screaming. Diego went cold down to his toes, listening as Eudora radioed in, “Shots fired, Grimble’s Department Store, on the corner of Fifty-Six and Main.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ABOUT THIS STORY!
> 
> I have been working a lot for the last couple months and have been struggling with just progressing this story pass the last chapter. I actually scrapped two different chapters that were completely written because they were not very good. 
> 
> I don't know what my posting schedule will be but I will try to get something up as soon as I can. Thank you everybody that has been patient with me.


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